^nokfii  bp  arlo  ^atefi* 


THE  INTOXICATED  GHOST  AND  OTHER 
STORIES.     Crown  8vo.     Ji-so. 

THE  DIARY  OF  A  SAINT.     Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 

LOVE  IN  A  CLOUD.  A  Novel.  Crown  8vo, 
$1.50. 

THE  PURITANS.    A  Novel.    Crown  8 vo,  J  1.50. 

THE   PHILISTINES.     A  Novel.     i2mo,  $1.50. 

THE   PAGANS.     A  NoveL     i6mo,  $1.00. 

PATTY'S  PERVERSITIES.  A  Novel.  i6mo, 
$1.00. 

PRINCE  VANCE.  The  Story  of  a  Prince  with  a 
Court  in  his  Box.  By  Arlo  Bates  and  Elea- 
nor Putnam.     Crown  Svo,  $1.50. 

A  LAD'S   LOVE.     i6mo,  $1.00. 

UNDER  THE  BEECH-TREE.  Poems.  Crown 
8vo,  $1.50. 

TALKS  ON  WRITING  ENGLISH.  First  Se- 
ries.    Crown  Svo,  $1.50. 

TALKS  ON  WRITING  ENGLISH.  Second 
Series.    Crown  Svo,  $1.30,  net.  Postpaid,  51.42. 

TALKS  ON  TEACHING  LITERATURE.  Crown 
Svo,  5 1 -30,  net.    Postpaid,  ^1.42. 

TALKS  ON  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE. 
Crown  Svo,  Ji-SO. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


r  A  L  K  s 


ON 


THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 


BY 


ARLO  BATES 


m^^^m 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

^t)e  Ritet^iDe  pre??  CambriDge 


COPYHIOHT,  189r 
BY  ARLO  BATES 
J  BIGHTS  K£S£BVI!D 


This  volume  is  made  up  from  a  course  of  lectures 
delivered  under  the  auspices  of  the  Lowell  Institute  in 
the  autumn  of  1895.  These  have  been  revised  and  to 
some  extent  rewritten,  and  the  division  into  chapters 
made ;  but  there  has  been  no  essential  change. 


285876 


• 

I. 

What  Literature  Is    . 

PAGS 
.          1 

n. 

Literary  Expression 

.        .        23 

ni. 

The  Study  of  Literature  . 

.        .    33 

IV. 

Why  we  Study  Literature     . 

45 

V. 

Faxse  Methods 

.    60 

VI. 

Methods  of  Study      .... 

69 

VII. 

The  Language  of  Literature    . 

.        .    88 

VIII. 

The  Intangible  Language 

.      Ill 

IX. 

The  Classics 

.  123 

X. 

The  Value  of  the  Classics    . 

.      135 

XI. 

The  Greater  Classics 

.  142 

XII. 

Contemporary  Literature 

.      154 

xm. 

New  Books  and  Old      .... 

.        .  167 

XIV. 

Fiction 

.      184 

XV. 

Fiction  and  Life 

.  199 

XVI. 

Poetry          

.      219 

XVII. 

The  Texture  of  Poetry     . 

.  227 

xvm. 

Poetry  and  Life        .... 

.        .      241 

TALKS  ON  THE  STUDY  OF 
LITERATURE 


WHAT   LITEEATURE  IS 

As  all  life  proceeds  from  the  egg,  so  all  dis- 
cussion must  proceed  from  a  definition.  Indeed, 
it  is  generally  necessary  to  follow  definition  by 
definition,  fixing  the  meaning  of  the  terms  used  in 
the  original  explanation,  and  again  explaining  the 
words  employed  in  this  exposition. 

I  once  heard  a  learned  but  somewhat  pedantic 
man  begin  to  answer  the  question  of  a  child  by 
saying  that  a  lynx  is  a  wild  quadruped.  He  was 
allowed  to  get  no  further,  but  was  at  once  asked 
what  a  quadruped  is.  He  responded  that  it  is  a 
mammal  with  four  feet.  This  of  course  provoked 
the  inquiry  what  a  mammal  is;  and  so  on  from 
one  question  to  another,  until  the  original  subject 
was  entirely  lost  sight  of,  and  the  lynx  disap- 
peared in  a  maze  of  verbal  distinctions  as  com- 
pletely as  it  might  have  vanished  in  the  tangles  of 
the  forest  primeval.  I  feel  that  I  am  not  wholly 
safe  from  danger  of  repeating  the  experience  of 
this  well-meaning   pedant  if  I  attempt  to  give  a 


^'    "   '    THE  StUI^Y  OF  LITERATURE 

definition  of  literature.  The  temptation  is  strong 
to  content  myself  with  saying :  "  Of  course  we  all 
know  what  literature  is."  The  difficulty  which  I 
have  had  in  the  endeavor  to  frame  a  satisfactory 
explanation  of  the  term  has  convinced  me,  how- 
ever, that  it  is  necessary  to  assume  that  few  of  us 
do  know,  and  has  impressed  upon  me  the  need  of 
trying  to  make  clear  what  the  word  means  to  me. 
If  my  statement  seem  insufficient  for  general  ap- 
plication, it  will  at  least  show  the  sense  which  I 
shall  give  to  "  literature  "  in  these  talks. 

In  its  most  extended  signification  literature  of 
course  might  be  taken  to  include  whatever  is  writ- 
ten or  printed ;  but  our  concern  is  with  that  por- 
tion only  which  is  indicated  by  the  name  "  polite 
literature,"  or  by  the  imported  term  "  belles-lettres," 
—  both  antiquated  though  respectable  phrases.  In 
other  words,  I  wish  to  confine  my  examination  to 
those  written  works  which  can  properly  be  brought 
within  the  scope  of  literature  as  one  of  the  fine 
arts. 

Undoubtedly  we  all  have  a  general  idea  of  the 
limitations  which  are  implied  by  these  various 
terms,  and  we  are  not  without  a  more  or  less 
vague  notion  of  what  is  indicated  by  the  word 
literature  in  its  most  restricted  and  highest  sense. 
The  important  point  is  whether  our  idea  is  clear 
and  well  realized.  We  have  no  difficulty  in  saying 
that  one  book  belongs  to  art  and  that  another 
does  not ;  but  we  often  find  ourselves  perplexed 
when  it  comes  to  telling  why.  We  should  all 
agree  that  "  The  Scarlet  Letter  "  is  literature  and 


WHAT  LITERATURE  IS  3 

that  the  latest  sensational  novel  is  not,  —  but  are 
we  sure  what  makes  the  difference?  We  know 
that  Shakespeare  wrote  poetry  and  Tupper  dog- 
gerel, but  it  by  no  means  follows  that  we  can  al- 
ways distinguish  doggerel  from  poetry ;  and  while 
it  is  not  perhaps  of  consequence  whether  we  are 
able  to  inform  others  why  we  respect  the  work  of 
one  or  another,  it  is  of  much  importance  that  we 
be  in  a  position  to  justify  our  tastes  to  ourselves. 
It  is  not  hard  to  discover  whether  we  enjoy  a 
book,  and  it  is  generally  possible  to  tell  why  we 
like  it ;  but  this  is  not  the  whole  of  the  matter. 
It  is  necessary  that  we  be  able  to  estimate  the 
justice  of  our  preferences.  We  must  remember 
that  our  liking  or  disliking  is  not  only  a  test  of 
the  book,  —  but  is  a  test  of  us  as  well.  There  is 
no  more  accurate  gauge  of  the  moral  character  of 
a  man  than  the  nature  of  the  books  which  he 
really  cares  for.  He  who  would  progress  by  the 
aid  of  literature  must  have  reliable  standards  by 
which  to  judge  his  literary  feelings  and  opinions ; 
he  must  be  able  to  say :  "  My  antipathy  to  such  a 
work  is  justified  by  this  or  by  that  principle ;  my 
pleasure  in  that  other  is  fine  because  for  these 
reasons  the  book  itself  is  noble." 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  arrive  at  any  clear  un^ 
derstanding  of  what  is  meant  by  literature  as  an 
art,  without  some  conception  of  what  constitutes 
art  in  general.  Broadly  speaking,  art  exists  in 
consequence  of  the  universal  human  desire  for 
sympathy.  Man  is  forever  endeavoring  to  break 
down  the  wall  which  separates  him  from  his  fel- 


4  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

lows.  Whether  we  call  it  egotism  or  simply  hu- 
manity, we  all  know  the  wish  to  make  others 
appreciate  our  feelings;  to  show  them  how  we 
suffer,  how  we  enjoy.  We  batter  our  fellow-men 
with  our  opinions  sufficiently  often,  but  this  is 
as  nothing  to  the  insistence  with  which  we  pour 
out  to  them  our  feelings.  A  friend  is  the  most 
valued  of  earthly  possessions  largely  because  he 
is  willing  to  receive  without  appearance  of  impa- 
tience the  unending  story  of  our  mental  sensa- 
tions. We  are  all  of  us  more  or  less  conscious  of 
the  constant  impulse  which  urges  us  on  to  ex- 
pression; of  the  inner  necessity  which  moves  us 
to  continual  endeavors  to  make  others  share  our 
thoughts,  our  experiences,  but  most  of  all  our 
emotions.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  we  trace  this 
instinctive  desire  back  far  enough,  we  reach  the 
beginnings  of  art. 

It  may  seem  that  the  splendidly  immeasurable 
achievements  of  poetry  and  painting,  of  architec- 
ture, of  music  and  sculpture,  are  far  enough  from 
this  primal  impulse ;  but  I  believe  that  in  it  is 
to  be  found  their  germ.  Art  began  with  the  first 
embodiment  of  human  feelings  by  permanent 
means.  Let  us  suppose,  by  way  of  illustration, 
some  prehistoric  man,  thrilled  with  awe  and  ter- 
ror at  sight  of  a  mastodon,  and  scratching  upon  a 
bone  rude  lines  in  the  shape  of  the  animal,  —  not 
only  to  give  information,  not  only  to  show  what 
the  beast  was  like,  but  also  to  convey  to  his  fel- 
lows his  feelings  when  confronted  with  the  mon- 
ster.    It  is  as  if  he  said :  "  See !  I  cannot  put  into 


WHAT  LITERATURE  IS  5 

words  what  I  felt ;  but  look !  the  creature  was  like 
this.  Think  how  you  would  feel  if  you  came  face 
to  face  with  it.  Then  you  will  know  how  I  felt.'* 
Something  of  this  sort  may  the  beginnings  of  art 
be  conceived  to  have  been. 

I  do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  the  prehistoric 
man  who  made  such  a  picture  —  and  such  a  pic- 
ture exists  —  analyzed  his  motives.  He  felt  a 
thing  which  he  could  not  say  in  words ;  he  in- 
stinctively turned  to  pictorial  representation, — 
and  graphic  art  was  born. 

The  birth  of  poetry  was  probably  not  entirely 
dissimilar.  Barbaric  men,  exulting  in  the  wild 
delight  of  victory,  may  seem  unlikely  sponsors  for 
the  infant  muse,  and  yet  it  is  with  them  that  song 
began.  The  savage  joy  of  the  conquerors,  too 
great  for  word,  found  vent  at  first  in  excited, 
bounding  leaps  and  uncouthly  ferocious  gestures, 
by  repetition  growing  into  rhythm;  then  broke 
into  inarticulate  sounds  which  timed  the  move- 
ments, until  these  in  turn  gave  place  to  words, 
gradually  moulded  into  rude  verse  by  the  meas- 
ures of  the  dance.  The  need  of  expressing  the 
feelings  which  swell  inwardly,  the  desire  of  shar- 
ing with  others,  of  putting  into  tangible  form,  the 
emotions  that  thi-ill  the  soul  is  common  to  all 
human  beings ;  and  it  is  from  this  that  arises  the 
thing  which  we  call  art. 

The  essence  of  art,  then,  is  the  expression  of 
emotion ;  and  it  follows  that  any  book  to  be  a 
work  of  art  must  embody  sincere  emotion.  Not 
all  works  which  spring  from  genuine  feeling  sue- 


6  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

ceed  in  embodying  or  conveying  it.  The  writer 
must  be  sufficiently  master  of  technique  to  be  able 
to  make  words  impart  what  he  would  express. 
The  emotion  phrased  must  moreover  be  general 
and  in  some  degree  typical.  Man  is  interested 
and  concerned  in  the  emotions  of  men  only  in  so 
far  as  these  throw  light  on  the  nature  and  possi- 
bilities of  life.  Art  must  therefore  deal  with  what 
is  typical  in  the  sense  that  it  touches  the  possi- 
bilities of  all  human  nature.  If  it  concerns  itself 
with  much  that  only  the  few  can  or  may  experi- 
ence objectively,  it  has  to  do  with  that  only  which 
all  human  beings  may  be  conceived  of  as  sharing 
subjectively.  Literature  may  be  broadly  defined 
as  the  adequate  expression  of  genuine  and  typical 
emotion.  The  definition  may  seem  clumsy,  and 
hardly  exact  enough  to  be  allowed  in  theoretical 
sesthetics ;  but  it  seems  to  me  sufficiently  accurate 
to  serve  our  present  purpose.  Certainly  the  essen- 
tials of  literature  are  the  adequate  embodiment  of 
sincere  and  general  feeling. 

By  sincerity  here  we  mean  that  which  is  not 
conventional,  which  is  not  theoretical,  not  arti- 
ficial; that  which  springs  from  a  desire  honestly 
to  impart  to  others  exactly  the  emotion  that  has 
been  actually  felt.  By  the  term  "  emotion "  or 
"  feeling "  we  mean  those  inner  sensations  of 
pleasure,  excitement,  pain,  or  passion,  which  are 
distinguished  from  the  merely  intellectual  pro- 
cesses of  the  mind,  —  from  thought,  perception, 
and  reason.  It  is  not  necessary  to  trespass  just 
now  on  the  domain  of  the  psychologist  by  an  en- 


WHAT  LITERATURE  IS  T 

deavor  to  establish  scientific  distinctions.  We  are 
all  able  to  appreciate  the  difference  between  what 
we  think  and  what  we  feel,  between  those  things 
which  touch  the  intellect  and  those  which  affect 
the  emotional  nature.  We  see  a  sentence  written 
on  paper,  and  are  intellectually  aware  of  it ;  but 
unless  it  has  for  us  some  especial  message,  unless 
it  concerns  us  personally,  we  are  not  moved  by  it. 
Most  impressions  which  we  receive  touch  our  un- 
derstanding without  arousing  our  feelings.  This 
is  all  so  evident  that  there  is  not  likely  to  arise  in 
your  minds  any  confusion  in  regard  to  the  mean- 
ing of  the  phrase  "  genuine  emotion." 

Whatever  be  the  origin  of  this  emotion  it  must 
be  essentially  impersonal,  and  it  is  generally  so  in 
form.  There  are  comparatively  few  works  of  art 
which  are  confessedly  the  record  of  simple,  direct, 
personal  experience;  and  perhaps  none  of  these 
stand  in  the  front  rank  of  literature.  Of  course 
I  am  not  speaking  of  literature  which  takes  a  per- 
sonal form,  like  any  book  written  in  the  first  per- 
son ;  but  of  those  that  are  avowedly  a  record  of 
actual  life.  We  must  certainly  include  in  litera- 
ture works  like  the  "  Reflections  "  of  Marcus  Au- 
relius,  the  "  Confessions "  of  Augustine,  and  — 
though  the  cry  is  far  —  Rousseau,  and  the  "  Jour- 
nal Intime  "  of  Amiel,  but  there  is  no  one  of  these 
which  is  to  be  ranked  high  in  the  scale  of  the 
world's  greatest  books.  Even  in  poetry  the  same 
thing  is  true.  However  we  may  admire  "  In 
Memoriam "  and  that  much  greater  poem,  Mrs. 
Browning's  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,"  we  are 


8  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

little  likely  to  regard  them  as  standing  supremely 
high  among  the  masterpieces.  The  "  Sonnets  "  of 
Shakespeare  which  we  suppose  to  be  personal  are 
yet  with  supreme  art  made  so  impersonal  that  as 
far  as  the  reader  is  concerned  the  experiences 
which  they  record  might  be  entirely  imaginary. 
It  is  in  proportion  as  a  poet  is  able  to  give  this 
quality  which  might  be  called  generalization  to  his 
work  that  it  becomes  art. 

The  reason  of  this  is  not  far  to  seek.  If  the 
emotion  is  professedly  personal  it  appeals  less 
strongly  to  mankind,  and  it  is  moreover  likely  to 
interfere  with  its  own  effective  embodiment.  All 
emotion  in  literature  must  be  purely  imaginative 
as  far  as  its  expression  in  words  is  concerned.  Of 
course  poetical  form  may  be  so  thoroughly  mas- 
tered as  to  become  almost  instinctive,  but  never- 
theless acute  personal  feeling  must  trammel  utter- 
ance. It  is  not  that  the  author  does  not  live 
throusrh  what  he  sets  forth.  It  is  that  the  artistic 
moment  is  not  the  moment  of  experience,  but  that 
of  imaginative  remembrance.  The  "  Sonnets  from 
the  Portuguese  "  afford  admirable  examples  of  what 
I  mean.  It  is  well  known  that  these  relate  a 
most  completely  personal  and  individual  story.  Not 
only  the  sentiments  but  the  circumstances  set  forth 
were  those  of  the  poet's  intimate  actual  life.  It  was 
the  passion  of  love  and  of  self-renunciation  in  her 
own  heart  which  broke  forth  in  the  fine  sonnet :  — 

Go  from  me,  yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  the  door 


WHAT  LITERATURE  IS  9 

Of  individual  life  shall  I  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul ;  or  lift  my  hand 

Serenely  in  the  svmshine  as  before 

Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  f orebore,  — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 

With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 

Must  taste  of  its  own  g-rapes :  and  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine, 

And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 

There  came  to  Mrs.  Browning  a  poignant  mo- 
ment when  she  realized  with  a  thrill  of  anguish 
what  it  would  mean  to  her  to  live  out  her  life 
alone,  separated  forever  from  the  lover  who  had 
won  her  back  from  the  very  grasp  of  death.  It 
was  not  in  the  pang  of  that  throe  that  she  made  of 
it  a  sonnet ;  but  afterward,  while  it  was  still  felt, 
it  is  true,  but  felt  rather  as  a  memory  vividly  re- 
produced by  the  imagination.  In  so  far  both  he 
who  writes  impersonally  and  he  who  writes  per- 
sonally are  dealing  with  that  which  at  the  instant 
exists  in  the  imagination.  In  the  latter,  however, 
there  is  still  the  remembrance  of  the  actuality,  the 
vibration  of  the  joy  or  sorrow  of  which  that  im- 
ao:inino:  is  born.  Human  self  -  consciousness  in- 
trudes  itself  whenever  one  is  avowedly  writing  of 
self;  sometimes  even  vanity  plays  an  important 
part.  From  these  and  other  causes  it  results  that, 
whatever  may  be  the  exceptions,  the  highest  work 
is  that  which  phrases  the  general  and  the  imper- 
sonal with  no  direct  reference  to  self.  Personal 
feeling  lies  behind  all  art,  and  no  work  can  be 
great  which  does  not  rest  on  a  basis  of  experience, 


10  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

more  or  less  remotely ;  yet  the  greatest  artist  is  he 
who  embodies  emotion,  not  in  terms  of  his  own 
life,  but  in  those  which  make  it  equally  the  prop- 
erty of  all  mankind.  It  is  feeling  no  longer  ego- 
tistic, but  broadly  human.  If  the  simile  do  not 
seem  too  homely,  we  might  say  that  the  differ- 
ence is  that  between  arithmetic  and  algebra.  In 
the  one  case  it  is  the  working  out  of  a  particular 
problem;  in  the  other  of  an  equation  which  is 
universal. 

Mankind  tests  art  by  universal  experience.  If 
an  author  has  really  felt  what  he  has  written,  if 
what  he  sets  down  has  been  actual  to  him  in  im- 
agination, whether  actual  in  experience  or  not, 
readers  recognize  this,  and  receive  his  work,  so 
that  it  lives.  /If  he  has  affected  a  feeling,  if  he 
has  shammed  emotion,  the  whole  is  sure  to  ring 
false,  and  the  world  soon  tires  of  his  writingsTl 
Immediate  popular  judgment  of  a  book  is  pretty 
generally  wrong ;  ultimate  general  estimate  is  in- 
variably correct.  Humanity  knows  the  truth  of 
human  feeling ;  and  while  it  may  be  fooled  for  a 
time,  it  comes  to  the  truth  at  last,  in  act  if  not  in 
theory.  The  general  public  is  guided  by  the  wise 
few,  and  it  does  not  reason  out  the  difference  be- 
tween the  genuine  and  the  imitation  ;  but  it  will 
in  the  end  save  the  real,  while  the  sham  is  forgot- 
ten through  utter  neglect. 

Even  where  an  author  has  seemingly  persuaded 
himself  that  his  pretended  emotions  are  real,  he 
cannot  permanently  deceive  the  world.  You  may 
remember    the    chapter    in    Aldrich's    delightful 


WHAT  LITERATURE  IS  11 

*'  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy "  which  relates  how  Tom 
Bailey,  being  crossed  in  love  at  the  mature  age  of 
fourteen,  deliberately  became  a  "  blighted  being ; " 
how  he  neglected  his  hair,  avoided  his  playmates, 
made  a  point  of  having  a  poor  appetite,  and  went 
mooning  about  forsaken  graveyards,  endeavoring 
to  fix  his  thoughts  upon  death  and  self-destruc- 
tion ;  how  entirely  the  whole  matter  was  a  hum- 
bug, and  yet  how  sincere  the  boy  was  in  supposing 
himself  to  be  unutterably  melancholy.  "  It  was  a 
great  comfort,"  he  says,  "  to  be  so  perfectly  mis- 
erable and  yet  not  to  suffer  any.  I  used  to  look  in 
the  glass  and  gloat  over  the  amount  and  variety 
of  mournful  expression  I  could  throw  into  my  fea- 
tures. If  I  caught  myself  smiling  at  anything,  I 
cut  the  smile  short  with  a  sigh.  The  oddest  thing 
about  all  this  is,  I  never  once  suspected  that  I  was 
not  unhappy.  No  one  .  .  .  was  more  deceived 
than  I."  We  have  all  of  us  had  experiences  of 
this  kind,  and  I  fancy  that  there  are  few  writers 
who  cannot  look  back  to  a  stage  in  their  career 
when  they  thought  that  it  was  a  prime  essential 
of  authorship  to  believe  themselves  to  feel  things 
which  they  did  not  feel  in  the  least.  This  sort  of 
self-deception  is  characteristic  of  a  whole  school  of 
writers,  of  whom  Byron  was  in  his  day  a  typical 
example.  There  is  no  doubt  that  Byron,  greatly 
gifted  as  he  was,  took  his  mooning  melancholy 
with  monstrous  seriousness  when  he  began  to 
write  it,  and  the  public  received  it  with  equal 
gravity.  Yet  Byron's  mysterious  misery,  his  im- 
measurable wickedness,  his  misanthropy  too  great 


12  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

for  words,  were  mere  affectations,  —  stage  tricks 
which  appealed  to  the  gallery.  Nobody  is  moved 
by  them  now.  The  fact  that  the  poet  himself 
thought  that  he  believed  in  them  could  not  save 
them.  Byron  had  other  and  nobler  qualities  which 
make  his  best' work  endure,  but  it  is  in  spite  of  his 
Bad-Boy-ish  pose  as  a  "  blighted  being."  The  fact 
is  that  sooner  or  later  time  tries  all  art  by  the  tests 
of  truth  and  common  sense,  and  nothing  which  is 
not  genuine  is  able  to  endure  this  proving. 

To  be  literature  a  work  must  express  sincere 
emotion;  but  how  is  feeling  which  is  genuine  to 
be  distinguished  from  that  which  is  affected  ?  All 
that  has  been  said  must  be  regarded  as  simply 
theoretical  and  of  very  little  practical  interest  un- 
less there  be  some  criterion  by  which  this  ques- 
tion may  be  settled.  Manifestly  we  cannot  so  far 
enter  into  the  consciousness  of  the  writer  as  to 
tell  whether  he  does  or  does  not  feel  what  he  ex- 
presses; it  can  be  only  from  outward  signs  that 
we  judge  whether  his  imagination  has  first  made 
real  to  him  what  he  undertakes  to  make  real  for 
others. 

Something  may  be  judged  by  the  amount  of 
seriousness  with  which  a  thing  is  written.  The 
air  of  sincerity  which  is  inevitable  in  the  genuine 
is  most  difficult  to  counterfeit.  What  a  man  really 
feels  he  writes  with  a  certain  earnestness  which 
may  seem  indefinite,  but  which  is  sufficiently  tan- 
gible in  its  effects  upon  the  reader.  More  than 
by  any  other  single  influence  mankind  has  in  all 
its  history  been  more  affected  by  the  contagion  of 


WHAT  LITERATURE  IS  .  13 

belief;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  exaggerate  the  sus- 
ceptibility of  humanity  to  this  force.  Vague  and 
elusive  as  this  test  of  the  genuineness  of  emotion 
might  seem,  it  is  in  reality  capable  of  much  prac- 
tical application.  We  have  no  trouble  in  decid- 
ing that  the  conventional  rhymes  which  fill  the 
corners  of  the  newspapers  are  not  the  product  of 
genuine  inner  stress.  We  are  too  well  acquainted 
with  these  time  -  draggled  rhymes  of  "  love  "  and 
"dove,"  of  "darts"  and  "hearts,"  of  "woe"  and 
"  throe ; "  we  have  encountered  too  often  these 
pretty,  petty  fancies,  these  twilight  musings  and 
midnight  moans,  this  mild  melancholy  and  maud- 
lin sentimentality.  We  have  only  to  read  these 
trig  little  bunches  of  verse,  tied  up,  as  it  were, 
with  sad-colored  ribbons,  to  feel  their  artificiality. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  impossible  to  read  "  Helen 
of  Kirconnel,"  or  Browning's  "  Prospice,"  or 
Wordsworth's  poems  to  Lucy,  without  being  sure 
that  the  poet  meant  that  which  he  said  in  his  song 
with  all  the  fervor  of  heart  and  imagination.  A 
reader  need  not  be  very  critical  to  feel  that  the 
novels  of  the  "  Duchess  "  and  her  tribe  are  made 
by  a  process  as  mechanical  as  that  of  making 
paper  flowers ;  he  will  not  be  able  to  advance  far 
in  literary  judgment  without  coming  to  suspect 
that  fiction  like  the  pleasant  pot-boilers  of  William 
Black  and  W.  Clark  Russell,  if  hand-made,  is  yet 
manufactured  according  to  an  arbitrary  pattern ; 
but  what  reader  can  fail  to  feel  that  to  Hawthorne 
"The  Scarlet  Letter"  was  utterly  true,  that  to 
Thackeray  Colonel  Newcome  was  a  creature  warm 


14  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

with  human  blood  and  alive  with  a  vigorous  hu- 
manity? Theoretically  we  may  doubt  our  power 
to  judge  of  the  sincerity  of  an  author,  but  we  do 
not  find  this  so  impossible  practically. 

Critics  sometimes  say  of  a  book  that  it  is  or  is 
not  "  convincing."  What  they  mean  is  that  the 
author  has  or  has  not  been  able  to  make  what  he 
has  written  seem  true  to  the  imagination  of  the 
reader.  The  man  who  in  daily  life  attempts  to  act 
a  part  is  pretty  sure  sooner  or  later  to  betray  him- 
self to  the  observant  eye.  His  real  self  will  shape 
the  disguise  under  which  he  has  hidden  it;  he  may 
hold  out  the  hands  and  say  the  words  of  Esau,  but 
the  voice  with  which  he  speaks  will  perforce  be  the 
voice  of  Jacob.  It  is  so  in  literature,  and  especially 
in  literature  which  arouses  the  perceptions  by  an 
appeal  to  the  imagination.  The  writer  must  be  in 
earnest  himseK  or  he  cannot  convince  the  reader. 
To  the  man  who  invents  a  fiction,  for  instance,  the 
story  which  he  has  devised  must  in  his  imagination 
be  profoundly  true  or  it  will  not  be  true  to  the 
audience  which  he  addresses.  To  the  novelist  who  is 
"convincing,"  his  characters  are  as  real  as  the  men 
he  meets  in  his  walks  or  sits  beside  at  table.  It 
is  for  this  reason  that  every  novelist  with  imagina- 
tion is  likely  to  find  that  the  fictitious  personages 
of  his  story  seem  to  act  independently  of  the  will  of 
the  author.  They  are  so  real  that  they  must  follow 
out  the  laws  of  their  character,  although  that  char- 
acter exists  only  in  imagination.  For  the  author 
to  feel  this  verity  in  what  he  writes  is  of  course  not 
all  that  is  needed  to  enable  him  to  convince   his 


WHAT  LITERATURE  IS  15 

public ;  but  it  is  certain  that  he  is  helpless  without 
it,  and  that  he  cannot  make  real  to  others  what  is 
not  real  to  himself. 

In  emotion  we  express  the  difference  between 
the  genuine  and  the  counterfeit  by  the  words  "  sen- 
timent "  and  "  sentimentality."  Sentiment  is  what 
a  man  really  feels  ;  sentimentality  is  what  he  per- 
suades himself  that  he  feels.  The  Bad  Boy  as  a 
"  blighted  being  "  is  the  type  of  sentimentalists  for 
all  time.  There  is  about  the  same  relation  between 
sentimentality  and  sentiment  that  there  is  between 
a  paper  doll  and  the  lovely  girl  that  it  represents. 
There  are  fashions  in  emotions  as  there  are  fash- 
ions in  bonnets ;  and  foolish  mortals  are  as  prone 
to  follow  one  as  another.  It  is  no  more  difficult 
for  persons  of  a  certain  quality  of  mind  to  per- 
suade themselves  that  they  thrill  with  what  they 
conceive  to  be  the  proper  emotion  than  it  is  for  a 
woman  to  convince  herself  of  the  especial  fitness 
to  her  face  of  the  latest  device  in  utterly  unbecom- 
ing headgear.  Our  grandmothers  felt  that  proper 
maidenly  sensibility  required  them  to  be  so  deeply 
moved  by  tales  of  broken  hearts  and  unrequited 
affection  that  they  must  escape  from  the  too  poig- 
nant anguish  by  fainting  into  the  arms  of  the  near- 
est man.  Their  grandchildren  to-day  are  neither 
more  nor  less  sincere,  neither  less  nor  more  sensi- 
ble in  following  to  extremes  other  emotional  modes 
which  it  might  be  invidious  to  specify.  Sentimen- 
tality will  not  cease  while  the  power  of  self-decep- 
tion remains  to  human  beings. 

With  sentimentality  genuine  literature   has  no 


16  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

more  to  do  than  it  has  with  other  human  weak- 
nesses and  vices,  which  it  may  picture  but  must  not 
share.  With  sentiment  it  is  concerned  in  every 
line.  Of  sentiment  no  composition  can  have  too 
much ;  of  sentimentality  it  has  more  than  enough 
if  there  be  but  the  trace  shown  in  a  single  affecta- 
tion of  phrase,  in  one  unmeaning  syllable  or  unne- 
cessary accent. 

There  are  other  tests  of  the  genuineness  of  the 
emotion  expressed  in  literature  which  are  more 
tangible  than  those  just  given  ;  and  being  more 
tangible  they  are  more  easily  applied.  I  have  said 
that  sham  sentiment  is  sure  to  ring  false.  This  is 
largely  due  to  the  fact  that  it  is  inevitably  incon- 
sistent. Just  as  a  man  has  no  difficulty  in  acting 
out  his  own  character,  whereas  in  any  part  that  is 
assumed  there  are  sure  sooner  or  later  to  be  lapses 
and  incongruities,  so  genuine  emotion  will  be  con- 
sistent because  it  is  real,  while  that  which  is  feigned 
will  almost  surely  jar  upon  itself.  The  fictitious 
personage  that  the  novelist  actually  shapes  in  his 
imagination,  that  is  more  real  to  him  than  if  it 
stood  by  his  side  in  solid  flesh,  must  be  consistent 
with  itself  because  it  is  in  the  mind  of  its  creator 
a  living  entity.  It  may  not  to  the  reader  seem 
winning  or  even  human,  but  it  will  be  a  unit  in 
its  conception  and  its  expression,  a  complete  and 
consistent  whole.  The  poem  which  comes  molten 
from  the  furnace  of  the  imagination  will  be  a  sin- 
gle thing,  not  a  collection  of  verses  more  or  less 
ingeniously  dovetailed  together.  The  work  which 
has  been  felt  as  a  whole,  which  has  been  grasped 


WHAT  LITERATURE  IS  17 

as  a  whole,  which  has  as  a  whole  been  lived  by 
that  inner  self  which  is  the  only  true  producer  of 
art,  will  be  so  consistent,  so  unified,  so  closely  knit, 
that  the  reader  cannot  conceive  of  it  as  being  built 
up  of  fortuitous  parts,  or  as  existing  at  all  except 
in  the  beautiful  completeness  which  genius  has 
given  it. 

What  I  mean  may  perhaps  be  more  clear  to  you 
if  you  take  any  of  the  little  tinkling  rhymes  which 
abound,  and  examine  them  critically.  Even  some 
of  more  merit  easily  afford  example.  Take  that 
pleasant  rhyme  so  popular  in  the  youth  of  our  fa- 
thers, "  The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,"  and  see  how  one 
stanza  or  another  might  be  lost  without  being 
missed,  how  one  thought  or  another  has  obviously 
been  put  in  for  the  rhyme  or  to  fill  out  the  verse, 
and  how  the  author  seems  throughout  always  to 
have  been  obliged  to  consider  what  he  might  say 
next,  putting  his  work  together  as  a  joiner  matches 
boards  for  a  table-top.  Contrast  this  with  the  ab- 
solute unity  of  Wordsworth's  "  Daffodils,"  Keats' 
"  Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn,"  Shelley's  "  Stanzas 
Written  in  Dejection,"  or  any  really  great  lyric. 
You  will  perceive  the  difference  better  than  any 
one  can  say  it.  It  is  true  that  the  quality  of  which 
we  are  speaking  is  sufficiently  subtile  to  make  ex- 
amples unsatisfactory  and  perhaps  even  dangerous ; 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  not  too  much  to  say 
that  any  careful  and  intelligent  reader  will  find 
little  difficulty  in  feeling  the  unity  of  the  master- 
pieces of  literature. 

This  lack  of  consistency  is  most  easily  appreci- 


18  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

ated,  perhaps,  in  the  drawing  of  character.  Those 
modern  writers  who  look  upon  literature  as  having 
two  functions,  first,  to  advance  extravagant  theo- 
ries, and  second,  —  and  more  important,  —  to  ad- 
vertise the  author,  are  constantly  putting  forward 
personages  that  are  so  inconsistent  that  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  see  that  they  are  mere  embodied  argu- 
ments or  sensationalism  incarnate,  and  not  in  the 
least  creatures  of  a  strong  and  wholesome  imagina- 
tion. When  in  "  The  Doll's  House  "  Ibsen  makes 
Nora  Helma  an  inconsequent,  frivolous,  childish 
puppet,  destitute  alike  of  moral  and  of  common 
sense,  and  then  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  trans- 
forms her  into  an  indignant  woman,  full  of  moral 
purpose,  furnished  not  only  with  a  complete  set  of 
advanced  views  but  with  an  entire  battery  of  mod- 
ern arguments  with  which  to  supj^ort  them,  — :  when, 
in  a  word,  the  author,  for  the  sake  of  his  theory, 
works  a  visible  miracle,  we  cease  to  believe  in  his 
imaginative  sincerity.  We  know  that  he  is  dog- 
matizing, not  creating ;  that  this  is  artifice,  not  art. 
Another  test  of  the  genuineness  of  what  is  ex- 
pressed in  literature  is  its  truth  to  life.  Here 
again  we  tread  upon  ground  somewhat  uncertain, 
since  truth  is  as  elusive  as  a  sunbeam,  and  to  no 
two  human  beings  the  same.  Yet  while  the  mean- 
ing of  life  is  not  the  same  to  any  two  who  walk 
under  the  heavens,  there  are  certain  broad  princi- 
ples which  all  men  recognize.  The  eternal  facts  of 
life  and  of  death,  of  love  and  of  hate,  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  the  fear  of  pain,  the  respect 
for  courage,  and  the  enthrallment  of  passion,  — 


WHAT  LITERATURE  IS  19 

these  are  laws  of  humanity  so  universal  that  we 
assume  them  to  be  known  to  all  mankind.  We 
cannot  believe  that  any  mortal  can  find  that  true 
to  his  imagination  which  ignores  these  unvarying 
conditions  of  human  existence.  He  who  writes 
what  is  untrue  to  humanity  cannot  persuade  us 
that  he  writes  what  is  true  to  himself.  We  are 
sure  that  those  impossible  heroes  of  Ouida,  with 
their  superhuman  accomplishments,  those  heroines 
of  beauty  transcendently  incompatible  with  their 
corrupt  hearts,  base  lives,  and  entire  defiance  of  all 
sanitary  laws,  were  no  more  real  to  their  author 
than  they  are  to  us.  Conviction  springs  from  the 
imagination,  and  imagination  is  above  all  else  the 
realizing  faculty.  It  is  idle  to  say  that  a  writer 
imagines  every  extravagant  and  impossible  whimsy 
which  comes  into  his  head.  He  imagines  those 
things,  and  those  things  only,  which  are  real  to  his 
inner  being ;  so  that  in  judging  literature  the  ques- 
tion to  be  settled  is:  Does  this  thing  which  the 
author  tells,  this  emotion  which  he  expresses,  im- 
press us  as  having  been  to  him  when  he  wrote  ac- 
tual, true,  and  absolutely  real  ?  To  unimaginative 
persons  it  might  seem  that  I  am  uttering  nonsense. 
It  is  not  possible  for  a  man  without  imagination  to 
see  how  things  which  are  invented  by  the  mind 
should  by  that  same  mind,  in  all  sanity,  be  received 
as  real.  Yet  that  is  precisely  what  happens.  No 
one,  I  believe,  produces  real  or  permanent  litera- 
ture who  is  not  capable  of  performing  this  miracle ; 
who  does  not  feel  to  be  true  that  which  has  no 
other  being,  no  other  place,  no  other  significance 


20  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

save  that  which  it  derives  from  the  creative  power 
of  his  own  inner  sense,  working  upon  the  materia] 
furnished  by  his  perception  of  the  world  around. 
him.  This  is  the  daily  miracle  of  genius ;  but  it 
is  a  miracle  shared  to  some  extent  by  every  mortal 
who  has  the  faintest  glimmer  of  genuine  imagi- 
nation. 

To  be  convincing  literature  must  express  emo- 
tion which  is  genuine ;  to  commend  itself  to  the 
best  sense  of  mankind,  and  thus  to  take  its  place 
in  the  front  rank,  it  must  deal  with  emotion  which 
is  wholesome  and  normal.  A  work  phrasing  mor- 
bid emotion  may  be  art,  and  it  may  be  lasting; 
but  it  is  not  the  highest  art,  and  it  does  not  ap- 
prove itself  to  the  best  and  sanest  taste.  Mankind 
looks  to  literature  for  the  expression  of  genuine, 
strong,  healthy  human  emotion;  emotion  passion- 
ate, tragic,  painful,  the  exhilaration  of  joy  or  the 
frenzy  of  grief,  as  it  may  be ;  but  always  the  emo- 
tion which  under  the  given  conditions  would  be 
felt  by  the  healthy  heart  and  soul,  by  the  virile 
man  and  the  womanly  woman.  No  amount  of  in- 
sane power  flashing  here  and  there  amid  the  foul- 
ness of  Tolstoi's  "  Kreutzer  Sonata,"  can  reconcile 
the  world  to  the  fact  that  the  book  embodies  the 
broodings  of  a  mind  morbid  and  diseased.  Even 
to  concede  that  the  author  of  such  a  work  had 
genius  could  not  avail  to  conceal  the  fact  that  his 
muse  was  smitten  from  head  to  feet  with  the  un- 
speakable corruption  of  leprosy.  Morbid  litera- 
ture may  produce  a  profound  sensation,  but  it  is 
incapable  of  creating  a  permanent  impression. 


WHAT  LITERATURE  IS  21 

The  principles  of  which  we  are  speaking  are 
strikingly  illustrated  in  the  tales  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe.  He  was  possessed  of  an  imagination  narrow, 
but  keen  ;  uncertain  and  wayward,  but  alert  and 
swift;  individual  and  original,  though  unhappily 
lacking  any  ethical  stability.  In  his  best  work 
he  is  sincere  and  convincing,  so  that  stories  like 
"  The  Cask  of  Amontillado,"  "  The  Gold  Bug,"  or 
"The  Purloined  Letter,"  are  permanently  effect- 
ive, each  in  its  way  and  degree.  Poe's  master- 
piece, "  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,"  is  a 
study  of  morbid  character,  but  it  is  saved  by  the 
fact  that  this  is  viewed  in  its  effect  upon  a  healthy 
nature.  The  reader  looks  at  everything  through 
the  mind  of  the  imaginary  narrator,  so  that  the 
ultimate  effect  is  that  of  an  exhibition  of  the 
feelings  of  a  wholesome  nature  brought  into  con- 
tact with  madness ;  although  even  so  the  ordinary 
reader  is  still  repelled  by  the  abnormal  elements 
of  the  theme.  There  is  in  all  the  work  of  Poe  a 
good  deal  that  is  fantastic  and  not  a  little  that  is 
affected.  He  is  rarely  entirely  sincere  and  sane. 
He  shared  with  Byron  •an  instinctive  fondness  for 
the  role  of  a  "  blighted  being,"  and  a  halo  of  ine- 
briety too  often  encircles  his  head ;  yet  at  his  best 
he  moves  us  by  the  mysterious  and  incommuni- 
cable power  of  genius.  Many  of  his  tales,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  mere  mechanical  tasks,  and  as 
such  neither  convincing  nor  permanent.  There  is 
a  great  deal  of  Poe  which  is  not  worth  anybody's 
reading  because  he  did  not  believe  it,  did  not 
imagine  it  as  real,  when  he  wrote  it.    Other  stories 


22  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

of  his  illustrate  the  futility  of  self-deception  on 
the  part  of  the  author.  "  Lygeia  "  Poe  always 
announced  as  his  masterpiece.  He  apparently  per- 
suaded himself  that  he  felt  its  turgid  sentimental- 
ity, that  he  thrilled  at  its  elaborately  theatrical 
setting,  and  he  flattered  himself  that  he  could 
cheat  the  world  as  he  had  cheated  himself.  Yet 
the  reader  is  not  fooled.  Every  man  of  judgment 
realizes  that,  however  the  author  was  able  to  de- 
ceive himself,  "  Lygeia "  is  rubbish,  and  sopho- 
moric  rubbish  at  that. 

There  has  probably  never  before  been  a  time 
which  afforded  so  abundant  illustrations  of  morbid 
work  as  to-day.  We  shall  have  occasion  later  to 
speak  of  Yerlaine,  Zola,  Ibsen,  and  the  rest,  with 
their  prurient  prose  and  putrescent  poetry ;  and 
here  it  is  enough  to  note  that  the  diseased  and  the 
morbid  are  by  definition  excluded  from  literature 
in  the  best  sense  of  the  word.  Good  art  is  not 
only  sincere;  it  is  human,  and  wholesome,  and 
sound. 


n 

LITERAKY   EXPRESSION 

So  much,  then,  for  what  literature  must  express ; 
it  is  well  now  to  examine  for  a  little  the  manner 
of  expression.  To  feel  genuine  emotion  is  not  all 
that  is  required  of  a  writer.  Among  artists  can- 
not be  reckoned 

One  born  with  poet's  heart  in  sad  eclipse 

Because  unmatched  with  poet's  tongue  ; 
Whose  song  impassioned  struggles  to  his  lips, 
Yet  dies,  alas !  unsung. 

He  must  be  able  to  sing  the  song;  to  make  the 
reader  share  the  throbbing  of  his  heart.  All  men 
feel ;  the  artist  is  he  who  can  by  the  use  of  con- 
ventions impart  his  feelings  to  the  world.  The 
musician  uses  conventions  of  sound,  the  painter 
conventions  of  color,  the  sculptor  conventions  of 
form,  and  the  writer  must  employ  the  means  most 
artificial  of  all,  the  conventions  of  language. 

Here  might  be  considered,  if  there  were  space, 
the  whole  subject  of  artistic  technique ;  but  it  is 
sufficient  for  our  purposes  to  notice  that  the  test 
of  technical  excellence  is  the  completeness  with 
which  the  means  are  adapted  to  the  end  sought. 
The  crucial  question  in  regard  to  artistic  work- 
manship is :  "  Does  it  faithfully  and  fully  convey 


24  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

the  emotion  which  is  the  essence  of  the  work?" 
A  work  of  art  must  make  itself  felt  as  well  as  in- 
tellectually understood  ;  it  must  reach  the  heart  as 
well  as  the  brain.  If  a  picture,  a  statue,  a  piece 
of  music,  or  a  poem  provokes  your  admiration 
without  touching  your  sensibilities,  there  is  some- 
thing radically  wrong  with  the  work  —  or  with 
you. 

First  of  all,  then,  expression  must  be  adequate. 
If  it  is  slovenly,  incomplete,  unskillful,  it  fails  to 
impart  the  emotion  which  is  its  purpose.  We 
have  all  sat  down  seething  with  excitement  and 
endeavored  to  get  our  feelings  upon  paper,  only 
to  discover  that  our  command  of  ourselves  and  of 
technical  means  was  not  sufficient  to  allow  us  to 
phrase  adequately  that  which  yet  we  felt  most  sin- 
cerely. It  is  true  that  style  is  in  a  sense  a  sub- 
ordinate matter,  but  it  is  none  the  less  an  essential 
one.  It  is  manifestly  of  little  consequence  to  the 
world  what  one  has  to  say  if  one  cannot  say  it. 
We  cannot  be  thrilled  by  the  song  which  the  dumb 
would  sing  had  he  but  voice. 

Yet  it  is  necessary  to  remember  that  although 
expression  must  be  adequate,  it  must  also  be  sub- 
ordinate. It  is  a  means  and  not  an  end,  and  the 
least  suspicion  of  its  having  been  put  first  destroys 
our  sense  of  the  reality  of  the  feeling  it  embodies. 
If  an  actress  in  moments  of  impassioned  declama- 
tion is  detected  arranging  her  draperies,  her  art 
no  longer  carries  conviction.  Nobody  feeling  the 
heart  -  swelling  words  of  Queen  Katharine,  for 
instance,  could  while   speaking   them  be   openly 


LITERARY  EXPRESSION  25 

concerned  about  the  effective  disposition  oi  her 
petticoats.  The  reader  of  too  intricate  and  elab- 
orate verse,  such  as  the  French  forms  of  triolet, 
rondeau,  rondel,  and  so  on,  has  an  instinctive  per- 
ception that  a  poet  whose  attention  was  taken  up 
with  the  involved  and  artfully  difficult  versifica- 
tion could  not  have  been  experiencing  any  deep 
passion,  no  matter  how  strongly  the  verse  protests 
that  he  has.  Expression  obviously  artful  instantly 
arouses  suspicion  that  it  has  been  wrought  for  its 
own  sake  only. 

Technical  excellence  which  displays  the  clever- 
ness of  the  artist  rather  than  imparts  the  emotion 
which  is  its  object,  defeats  its  own  end.  A  book 
so  elaborated  that  we  feel  that  the  author  was  ab- 
sorbed in  perfection  of  expression  rather  than  in 
what  he  had  to  express  leaves  us  cold  and  un- 
moved, if  it  does  not  tire  us.  The  messenger  has 
I  usurped  the  attention  which  belonged  to  the  mes- 
"  sage.  It  is  not  impossible  that  I  shall  offend  some 
of  you  when  I  say  that  Walter  Pater's  "  Marius 
the  Epicurean  "  seems  to  me  a  typical  example  of 
this  sort  of  book.  The  author  has  expended  his 
energies  in  exquisite  excesses  of  language ;  he  has 
refined  his  style  until  it  has  become  artfully  inani- 
mate. It  is  like  one  of  the  beautiful  glass  flowers 
in  the  Harvard  Museum.  It  is  not  a  living  rose. 
It  is  no  longer  a  message  spoken  to  the  heart  of 
mankind ;  it  is  a  brilliant  exercise  in  technique. 

Literature,  then,  is  genuine  emotion,  adequately 
expressed.  To  be  genuine  it  must  come  from 
the  imagination ;  and  adequate  expression  is  that 


26  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

which  in  turn  reaches  the  imagination.  If  it  were 
not  that  the  phrase  seems  forbiddingly  cumber- 
some, we  might,  indeed,  define  literature  as  being 
such  writings  as  are  able  to  arouse  emotion  by  an 
appeal  to  the  imagination. 

A  sensational  story,  what  the  English  call  a 
"  penny  dreadful  "or  a  ^'  shilling  shocker  "  accord- 
ing to  the  cost  of  the  bundle  of  cheap  excitement, 
may  be  an  appeal  to  the  emotions,  but  it  aims  to 
act  upon  the  senses  or  the  nerves.  Its  endeavor  is 
to  work  by  the  grossest  and  most  palpable  means. 
It  is  an  assault,  so  to  say,  upon  the  perceptions. 
Books  of  this  sort  have  nothing  to  do  with  imagi- 
nation, either  in  reader  or  writer.  They  would  be 
ruled  out  by  all  the  tests  which  we  have  given, 
since  they  are  not  sincere,  not  convincing,  not  con- 
sistent, not  true  to  life. 

One  step  higher  in  the  scale  come  romances  of 
abounding  fancy,  of  which  "  She "  may  serve  as 
an  example.  They  are  clever  feats  of  intellectual 
jugglery,  and  it  is  to  the  intellectual  perceptions 
that  they  appeal.  Not,  it  is  true,  to  the  intellect 
in  its  loftiest  moods,  but  the  understanding  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  feeling.  No  reader  is  really 
moved  by  them.  The  ingenuity  of  the  author 
amuses  and  absorbs  the  attention.  The  dexterity 
and  unexpectedness  of  the  tale  excite  and  enter- 
tain. The  pleasure  experienced  in  reading  these 
books  is  not  far  removed  from  that  exjierienced  in 
seeing  a  clever  contortionist.  To  read  them  is 
like  going  to  the  circus,  —  a  pleasant  diversion,  and 
one  not  without  a  certain  importance  to  this  over- 


LITERARY  EXPRESSION  27 

wrought  generation.  It  is  amusement,  although 
not  of  a  high  grade. 

Do  not  suppose,  however,  that  I  am  saying  that 
a  story  cannot  have  an  exciting  plot  and  yet  be 
literature.  In  the  restricted  sense  in  which  these 
lectures  take  the  term,  I  should  say  that  "  The 
Adventures  of  Captain  Horn,"  an  agreeable  book 
which  has  been  widely  read  of  late,  is  not  litera- 
ture ;  and  yet  "  Treasure  Island,"  upon  which  per- 
haps to  some  extent  the  former  was  modeled,  most 
certainly  is  literature.  The  difference  is  that  while 
Stockton  in  "  Captain  Horn "  has  worked  with 
clever  ingenuity  to  entertain,  Stevenson  in  "  Treas- 
ure Island  "  so  vividly  imagined  what  he  wrote 
that  he  has  made  his  characters  human,  informed 
every  page  with  genuine  feeling,  and  produced  a 
romance  permanently  vital.  The  plot  of  those  su- 
perb masterpieces  of  adventure,  the  "  D'Artagnan 
Romances,"  is  as  wild,  perhaps  as  extravagant,  as 
that  of  the  marrow-curdling  tales  which  make  the 
fortunes  of  sensational  papers ;  but  to  the  excite- 
ment of  adventure  is  added  that  unification,  that 
humanization,  that  perfection  of  imaginative  real- 
ism which  mark  Dumas  as  a  genius. 

The  difference  of  effect  between  books  which 
are  not  literature  and  those  which  are  is  that  while 
these  amuse,  entertain,  glance  over  the  surface  of 
the  mind,  those  touch  the  deepest  springs  of  being. 
They  touch  us  aesthetically,  it  is  true.  The  emo- 
tion aroused  is  impersonal,  and  thus  removed  from 
the  keen  thrill  which  is  born  of  actual  experiences ; 
but  it  depends  upon  the  same  passions,  the  same 


28  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

characteristics,  the  same  humanity,  that  underlie 
the  joys  and  sorrows  of  real  life.  It  is  because  we 
are  capable  of  passion  and  of  disappointment  that 
we  are  moved  by  the  love  and  anguish  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  of  Francesca  and  Paolo.  Our  emotion 
is  not  identical  with  that  with  which  the  heart 
throbs  in  personal  love  and  grief ;  yet  art  which 
is  genuine  awakes  emotion  thoroughly  genuine. 
Books  of  sensationalism  and  sentimentality  may 
excite  curiosity,  or  wonder,  or  amusement,  or  sham 
feeling ;  but  they  must  have  at  least  some  spark  of 
sacred  fire  before  they  can  arouse  in  the  intelligent 
reader  this  inner  throb  of  real  feeling. 

The  personal  equation  must  be  considered  here. 
The  same  book  must  affect  different  readers  dif- 
ferently. From  the  sentimental  maid  who  weeps 
in  the  kitchen  over  "  The  Seventy  Sorrows  of 
Madelaine  the  Broken-hearted,"  to  her  master  in 
his  library,  touched  by  the  grief  of  King  Lear,  is 
indeed  a  far  cry;  and  yet  both  may  be  deeply 
moved.  It  may  be  asked  whether  we  have  arrived 
at  a  standard  which  will  enable  us  to  judge  be- 
tween them. 

The  matter  is  perhaps  to  be  cleared  up  some- 
what by  a  little  common  sense.  It  is  not  hard  to 
decide  whether  the  kitchen-maid  in  question  has 
an  imagination  sufficiently  well  developed  to  bring 
her  within  the  legitimate  grounds  of  inquiry ;  and 
the  fiction  which  delights  her  rudimentary  under- 
standing is  easily  ruled  out.  It  is  not  so  easy, 
however,  to  dispose  of  this  point  entirely.  There 
is  always  a  border-land  concerning  which  doubts 


LITERARY  EXPRESSION  29 

and  disagreements  must  continue  to  exist.  In  all 
matters  connected  with  the  feelings  it  is  necessary 
to  recognize  the  fact  that  the  practical  is  not  likely 
to  accord  fully  with  the  theoretical.  We  define 
literature  only  to  be  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
difficulty  which  is  universal  in  art,  the  difficulty 
of  degree.  No  book  will  answer,  it  may  be,  to  a 
theoretical  definition,  no  work  conform  completely 
to  required  conditions.  The  composition  which  is 
a  masterpiece  stands  at  one  end  of  the  list,  and 
comes  so  near  to  the  ideal  that  there  is  no  doubt  of 
its  place.  At  the  other  end  there  is  the  rubbish, 
equally  unquestioned  in  its  worthlessness.  The 
troublesome  thing  is  to  decide  where  between 
comes  the  dividing  line  above  which  is  literature. 
We  call  a  ring  or  a  coin  gold,  knowing  that  it 
contains  a  mixture  of  alloy.  The  goldsmith  may 
have  a  standard,  and  refuse  the  name  gold  to  any 
mixture  into  which  enters  a  given  per  cent  of 
baser  metal ;  but  in  art  this  is  impossible.  Here 
each  reader  must  decide  for  himself.  Whether 
works  which  lie  near  the  line  are  to  be  considered 
literature  is  a  question  to  be  decided  individually. 
Each  reader  is  justified  in  making  his  own  deci- 
sion, provided  only  that  he  found  it  upon  definite 
principles.  It  is  largely  a  question  what  is  one's 
own  responsiveness  to  literature.  There  are  those 
to  whom  Tolstoi's  "  War  and  Peace  "  is  a  work  of 
greatness,  while  others  fail  to  find  it  anything  but 
a  chaotic  and  unorganized  note-book  of  a  genius 
not  self -responsible.  "  John  Inglesant "  appeals 
to  many  persons  of  excellent  taste  as  a  novel  of 


30  •         THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

permanent  beauty,  while  to  some  it  seems  senti- 
mental and  artificial.  Mr.  Lowell  and  others  have 
regarded  Sylvester  Judd's  "  Margaret "  as  one  of 
the  classics  of  American  fiction ;  yet  it  has  never 
appealed  to  the  general  public,  and  an  eminent  lit- 
erary man  told  me  not  long  ago  that  he  finds  it 
dull.  To  these  and  to  all  other  varying  opinions 
ihere  is  but  one  thing  to  be  said :  Any  man  has  a 
right  to  his  judgment  if  it  is  founded  upon  the  logi- 
cal application  of  definite  principles.  Any  opinion 
which  is  sincere  and  based  upon  standards  must 
be  treated  with  respect,  whether  it  is  agreed  with 
or  not. 

It  is  difficult,  on  the  other  hand,  to  feel  that 
there  is  any  moral  excuse  for  prejudices  which 
are  the  result  of  individual  whims  rather  than  of 
deliberate  judgment.  An  opinion  should  not  be 
some  burr  caught  up  by  the  garments  unawares; 
but  a  fruit  carefully  selected  as  the  best  on  the 
tree.  The  fact  is  that  the  effort  of  forming  an  in- 
telligent judgment  is  more  severe  than  most  per- 
sons care  to  undertake  unless  absolutely  forced  to 
it.  It  sometimes  seems  as  if  the  whole  tendency 
of  modern  life  were  in  the  direction  of  cultivating 
mental  dexterity  until  the  need  of  also  learning 
mental  concentration  is  in  danger  of  being  over- 
looked. Men  are  trained  to  meet  intellectual  emer- 
gencies, but  not  to  endure  continued  intellectual 
strain.  The  difficulty  which  is  to  be  conquered  by 
a  sudden  effort  they  are  able  to  overcome,  but 
when  deliberation  and  continuous  mental  achieve- 
ment are  required,  the  weakness  of  their  training 


LITERARY  EXPRESSION  31 

is  manifest.  The  men,  and  perhaps  still  more  the 
women,  of  to-day  are  ready  to  decide  upon  the 
merits  of  a  book  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye ;  and 
it  is  to  be  acknowledged  that  these  snap  judgments 
are  reasonable  far  more  often  than  could  have 
been  expected.  When  it  comes,  however,  to  hav- 
ing a  reason  for  the  faith  that  is  in  them,  it  is 
lamentable  how  many  intelligent  persons  prove 
utterly  incapable  of  fairly  and  logically  examining 
literature  ;  and  it  must  be  conceded  that  there 
should  be  some  other  test  by  which  to  decide 
whether  a  book  is  to  be  included  under  the  gra- 
cious name  of  literature  than  the  dogmatic  asser- 
tion ;  "  Well,  I  don't  care  what  anybody  says 
against  it ;  I  like  it !  " 

We  have  discussed  the  distinctions  by  which  it 
may  be  decided  what  is  to  be  considered  litera- 
ture ;  and,  did  space  warrant,  we  might  go  on  to 
examine  the  principles  which  determine  the  rank 
of  work.  They  are  of  course  largely  to  be  in- 
ferred from  what  has  been  said  already.  The 
merit  of  literature  will  be  chiefly  dependent  upon 
the;  closeness  with  which  it  conforms  to  the  rules 
which  mark  the  nature  of  literature.  The  more 
fully  genuine  its  emotion,  the  more  adequate  its  ex- 
pression, the  higher  the  scale  in  which  a  book  is 
to  be  placed.  The  more  sane  and  healthful,  the 
more  entirely  in  accord  with  the  needs  and  springs 
of  general  human  life,  the  greater  the  work.  In- 
deed, beyond  this  there  is  little  to  say  save  that 
the  nobility  of  intention,  the  ethical  significance  of 


32  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

the  emotion  embodied,  mark  the  worth  and  the  rank 
of  a  composition. 

I  have  tried  to  define  literature,  and  yet  in  the 
end  my  strongest  feeling  is  that  of  the  inadequacy 
of  my  definition.  He  would  be  but  a  lukewarm 
lover  who  was  capable  of  framing  a  description 
which  would  appear  to  him  to  embody  fully  the 
perfections  of  his  mistress ;  and  art  is  a  mistress 
so  beautiful,  so  high,  so  noble,  that  no  phrases  can 
fitly  characterize  her,  no  service  can  be  wholly 
worthy  of  her.  Life  is  full  of  disappointment,  and 
pain,  and  bitterness,  and  that  sense  of  futility  in 
which  all  these  evils  are  summed  up  ;  and  yet  even 
were  there  no  other  alleviation,  he  who  knows  and 
truly  loves  literature  finds  here  a  sufiicient  reason 
to  be  glad  that  he  lives.  Science  may  show  man 
how  to  live ;  art  makes  living  worth  his  while. 
Existence  to-day  without  literature  would  be  a 
failure  and  a  despair ;  and  if  we  cannot  satisfacto- 
rily define  our  art,  we  at  least  are  aware  how  it  en- 
riches and  ennobles  the  life  of  every  human  being 
who  comes  within  the  sphere  of  its  wide  and  gra- 
cious influence. 


m 

THE   STUDY   OF  LITERATUEE 

When  it  is  clearly  understood  what  literature 
is,  there  may  still  remain  a  good  deal  of  vagueness 
in  regard  to  the  study  of  it.  It  is  by  no  means 
sufficient  for  intellectual  development  that  one 
have  a  misty  general  share  in  the  conventional 
respect  traditionally  felt  for  such  study.  There 
should  be  a  clear  and  accurate  comprehension  why 
the  study  of  literature  is  worth  the  serious  atten- 
tion of  earnest  men  and  women. 

It  might  at  first  thought  seem  that  of  this  ques- 
tion no  discussion  is  needed.  It  is  generally  as- 
sumed that  the  entire  matter  is  sufficiently  obvi- 
ous, and  that  this  is  all  that  there  is  to  it.  The 
obvious,  however,  is  often  the  last  to  be  perceived ; 
and  such  is  the  delusiveness  of  human  nature  that 
to  call  a  thing  too  plain  to  need  demonstration  is 
often  but  a  method  of  concealing  inability  to 
prove.  Men  are  apt  to  fail  to  perceive  what  lies 
nearest  to  them,  while  to  cover  their  blindness  and 
ignorance  they  are  ready  to  accept  without  rea- 
soning almost  any  assumption  which  comes  well 
recommended.  The  demand  for  patent  medicines, 
wide-spread  as  it  is,  is  insignificant  in  comparison 
to  the  demand   for  ready-made  opinions.      Most 


34  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

men  accept  the  general  belief,  and  do  not  trouble 
themselves  to  make  it  really  theirs  by  examining 
the  grounds  upon  which  it  is  based.  We  all  agree 
that  it  is  well  to  study  literature,  it  is  probable; 
but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  those  of  us  who  can  say 
exactly  why  it  is  well  do  not  form  a  majority. 

The  word  "  study,"  it  may  be  remarked  in  pass- 
ing, is  not  an  entirely  happy  one  in  this  connec- 
tion. It  has,  it  is  true,  many  delightful  associa- 
tions, especially  for  those  who  have  really  learned 
how  to  study ;  but  it  has,  too,  a  certain  doleful 
suggestiveness  which  calls  up  painful  memories  of 
childhood.  It  is  apt  to  bring  to  mind  bitter  hours 
when  some  example  in  long  division  stood  like  an 
impassable  wall  between  us  and  all  happiness ; 
when  complex  fractions  deprived  life  of  all  joy,  or 
the  future  was  hopelessly  blurred  by  being  seen 
through  a  mist  of  tears  and  irregular  French  verbs. 
The  word  *'  study  "  is  therefore  likely  to  seem  to 
indicate  a  mechanical  process,  full  of  weariness 
and  vexation  of  spirit.  This  is  actually  true  of  no 
study  which  is  worthy  of  the  name ;  and  least  of 
all  is  it  true  in  connection  with  art.  The  word  as 
applied  to  literature  is  not  far  from  meaning  in- 
telligent enjoyment ;  it  signifies  not  only  apprehen- 
sion but  comprehension  ;  it  denotes  not  so  much 
accumulation  as  assimilation  ;  it  is  not  so  much 
acquirement  as  ajipreciation. 

By  the  study  of  literature  can  be  meant  nothing 
pedantic,  nothing  formal,  nothing  artificial.  I 
should  like  to  call  the  subject  of  these  talks  "  Ex- 
periencing Literature,"   if  the  verb   could  be  re- 


THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE  35 

ceived  in  the  same  sense  as  in  the  old-fashioned 
phrase  "  experiencing  religion."  That  is  what  I 
mean.  The  study  of  literature  is  neither  less  nor 
more  than  experiencing  literature,  —  the  taking  it 
to  heart  and  the  getting  to  its  heart. 

To  most  persons  to  study  literature  means  no- 
thing more  than  to  read.  There  is,  it  is  true,  a 
vague  general  notion  that  it  is  the  reading  of  some 
particular  class  of  books,  not  always  over  clearly 
defined.  It  is  not  popularly  supposed  that  the 
reading  of  an  ordinary  newspaper  is  part  of  the 
study  of  literature  ;  while  on  the  other  hand  there 
are  few  persons  who  can  imagine  that  the  perusal 
of  Shakespeare,  however  casual,  can  be  anything 
else.  Since  literary  art  is  in  the  form  of  written 
works,  reading  is  of  course  essential ;  but  by  study 
we  mean  something  more  grave  and  more  fruit- 
ful than  the  mere  surface  acquaintance  with  books, 
no  matter  how  high  in  the  scale  of  excellence 
these  may  be. 

The  study  of  literature,  in  the  true  signification 
of  the  phrase,  is  that  act  by  which  the  learner 
gets  into  the  attitude  of  mind  which  enables  him 
to  enter  into  that  creative  thought  which  is  the 
soul  of  every  real  book.  It  is  easily  possible,  as 
every  reader  knows,  to  read  without  getting  below 
the  surface  ;  to  take  a  certain  amount  of  intellect- 
ual account  of  that  which  we  skim ;  to  occupy  with 
it  the  attention,  and  yet  not  to  be  at  all  in  the 
mood  which  is  indispensable  for  proper  comprehen- 
sion. It  is  this  which  makes  it  possible  for  the 
young  girl  of  the  present  day  to  read  novels  which 


86  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

her  more  sophisticated  brothers  cannot  look  at 
"without  blushing  to  see  them  in  her  hands  —  at 
least,  we  hope  that  it  is  this  I  We  all  have  mo- 
ments when  from  mental  weariness,  indifference, 
indolence,  or  abstraction,  we  slide  over  the  pages 
as  a  skater  goes  over  the  ice,  never  for  a  moment 
having  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  what  is  hidden  be- 
neath the  surface.  This  is  not  the  thing  about 
which  we  are  talking.  We  mean  by  study  the 
making  our  own  all  that  is  contained  in  the  books 
which  we  read ;  and  not  only  all  that  is  said,  but 
still  more  all  that  is  suggested  ;  all  that  is  to  be 
learned,  but  above  everything  all  that  is  to  be  felt. 
The  object  of  the  study  of  literature  is  always  a 
means  and  not  an  end,  and  yet  in  the  development 
of  the  mind  no  means  can  fulfill  its  purpose  which 
is  not  an  enjoyment.  Goethe  has  said :  "  Woe  to 
tl;iat  culture  which  points  man  always  to  an  end, 
instead  of  making  him  happy  by  the  way."  No 
study  is  of  any  high  value  which  is  not  a  delight 
in  itself;  and  equally,  no  study  is  of  value  which 
is  pursued  simply  for  itself.  Every  teacher  knows 
how  futile  is  work  in  which  the  pupil  is  not  inter- 
ested, —  in  other  words,  which  is  not  a  pleasure  to 
him.  The  mind  finds  delight  in  all  genuine  activ- 
ity and  acquirement;  and  the  student  must  take 
pleasure  in  his  work  or  he  is  learning  little.  Some 
formal  or  superficial  knowledge  he  may  of  course 
accumulate.  The  learning  of  the  multiplication 
table  is  not  to  be  set  aside  as  useless  because  it 
is  seldom  accompanied  by  thrills  of  passionate  en- 
joyment.    There  must  be  some  drudgery  in  edu- 


THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE  37 

cation ;  but  at  least  what  I  have  said  certainly 
holds  good  in  all  that  relates  to  the  deeper  and 
higher  development  of  the  mind. 

The  study  of  literature,  then,  is  both  a  duty  and 
a  delight ;  a  pleasure  in  itself  and  a  help  toward 
what  is  better.  By  it  one  approaches  the  compre- 
hension of  those  books  which  are  to  be  ranked  as 
works  of  art.  By  it  one  endeavors  to  fit  himself 
to  enter  into  communication  with  the  great  minds 
and  the  great  imaginations  of  mankind.  What  we 
gain  in  this  may  be  broadly  classified  as  pleasure, 
social  culture,  and  a  knowledge  of  life.  Any  one 
of  these  terms  might  almost  be  made  to  include 
the  other  two,  but  the  division  here  is  convenient 
in  discussion. 

Pleasure  in  its  more  obvious  meaning  is  the 
most  superficial,  although  the  most  evident,  gain 
from  art.  In  its  simplest  form  this  is  mere  amuse- 
ment and  recreation.  We  read,  we  say,  "  to  pass 
the  time."  There  are  in  life  hours  which  need  to 
be  beguiled ;  times  when  we  are  unequal  to  the  fa- 
tigue or  the  worry  of  original  thought,  or  when 
some  present  reality  is  too  painful  to  be  faced.  In 
these  seasons  we  desire  to  be  delivered  from  self, 
and  the  self-forgetfulness  and  the  entertainment 
that  we  find  in  books  are  of  unspeakable  relief 
and  value.  This  is  of  course  a  truism ;  but  it  was 
j  never  before  so  insistently  true  as  it  is  to-day. 
Life  has  become  so  busy,  it  is  in  a  key  so  high, 
so  nervously  exhaustive,  that  the  need  of  amuse- 
ment, of  recreation  which  shall  be  a  relief  from 
the  severe  nervous  and  mental  strain,  has  become 


38  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

most  pressing.  The  advance  of  science  and  civi- 
lization has  involved  mankind  in  a  turmoil  of  mul- 
titudinous and  absorbing  interests  from  the  pres- 
sure of  which  there  seems  to  us  no  escape  except 
in  self-oblivion  ;  and  the  most  obvious  use  of  read- 
ing is  to  minister  to  this  end. 

At  the  risk  of  being  tedious  it  is  necessary  to 
remark  in  passing  that  herein  lies  a  danger  not  to 
be  passed  over  lightly.  There  is  steadily  increas- 
ing the  tendency  to  treat  literature  as  if  it  had  no 
other  function  than  to  amuse.  There  is  too  much 
reading  which  is  like  opium-eating  or  dram-drink- 
ing. It  is  one  thing  to  amuse  one's  self  to  live, 
and  quite  another  to  live  to  amuse  one's  self.  It 
is  universally  conceded,  I  believe,  that  the  intel- 
lect is  higher  than  the  body;  and  I  cannot  see 
why  it  does  not  follow  that  intellectual  debauch- 
ery is  more  vicious  than  physical.  Certainly  it  is 
difficult  to  see  why  the  man  who  neglects  his  intel- 
lect while  caring  scrupulously  for  his  body  is  on  a 
higher  moral  plane  than  the  man  who,  though  he 
neglect  or  drug  his  body,  does  cultivate  his  mind. 

In  an  entirely  legitimate  fashion,  however,  books 
may  be  read  simply  for  amusement ;  and  greatly 
is  he  to  be  pitied  who  is  not  able  to  lose  himself  in 
the  enchantments  of  books.  A  physical  cripple  is 
hardly  so  sorrowful  an  object.  Everybody  knows 
the  remark  attributed  to  Talleyrand,  who  is  said 
to  have  answered  a  man  who  boasted  that  he  had 
never  learned  whist :  "  What  a  miserable  old  age 
you  are  preparing  for  yourself."  A  hundredfold 
is  it  true  that  he  who  does  not  early  cultivate  the 


THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE  39 

habit  of  reading  is  neglecting  to  prepare  a  resource 
for  the  days  when  he  shall  be  past  active  life. 
While  one  is  in  the  strength  of  youth  or  manhood 
it  is  possible  to  fill  the  mind  with  interests  of  activ- 
ity. As  long  as  one  is  engaged  in  affairs  directly 
the  need  of  the  solace  of  books  is  less  evident  and 
less  pressing.  It  is  difficult  to  think  without  pro- 
found pity  of  the  aged  man  or  woman  shut  off 
from  all  important  participation  in  the  work  or  the 
pleasure  of  the  world,  if  the  vicarious  enjoyment  of 
human  interests  through  literature  be  also  lacking. 
It  is  amazing  how  little  this  fact  is  realized  or  in- 
sisted upon.  There  is  no  lack  of  advice  to  the 
young  to  provide  for  the  material  comfort  of  their 
age,  but  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  the  counsel  to 
prepare  for  their  intellectual  comfort  is  not  the 
more  important.  Reading  is  the  garden  of  joy  to 
youth,  but  for  age  it  is  a  house  of  refuge. 

The  second  object  which  one  may  have  in  read- 
ing is  that  of  social  cultivation.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  remark  how  large  a  part  books  play 
in  modern  conversation,  or  how  much  one  may  add 
to  one's  conversational  resources  by  judicious  read- 
ing. It  is  true  that  not  a  little  of  the  modern  talk 
about  books  is  of  a  quality  to  make  the  genuine 
lover  of  literature  mingle  a  smile  with  a  sigh.  It  is 
the  result  not  of  reading  literature,  so  much  as  of 
reading  about  literature.  It  is  said  that  Boston  cul- 
ture is  simply  diluted  extract  of  "  Littell's  Living 
Age  ;"  and  in  the  same  spirit  it  might  be  asserted 
that  much  modern  talk  about  books  is  the  extract 


40  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

of  newspaper  condensations  of  prefaces.  The  tale 
is  told  of  the  thrifty  paupers  of  a  Scotch  alms- 
house that  the  aristocrats  among  them  who  had 
friends  to  give  them  tea  would  steep  and  re-steep 
the  precious  herb,  then  dry  the  leaves,  and  sell 
them  to  the  next  grade  of  inmates.  These  in  turn, 
after  use,  dried  the  much-boiled  leaves  once  again, 
and  sold  them  to  the  aged  men  to  be  ground  up 
into  a  sort  of  false  snuff  with  which  the  poor  crea- 
tures managed  to  cheat  into  feeble  semblance  of 
joy  their  withered  nostrils.  I  have  in  my  time 
heard  not  a  little  so-called  literary  conversation 
which  seemed  to  me  to  have  gone  to  the  last  of 
these  processes,  and  to  be  a  very  poor  quality  of 
thrice-steeped  tea-leaf  snuff!  Indeed,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  in  general  society  book  talk  is  often 
confined  to  chatter  about  books  which  had  better 
not  have  been  read,  and  to  the  retailing  of  second- 
hand opinions  at  that.  The  majority  of  mankind 
are  as  fond  of  getting  their  ideas  as  they  do  their 
household  wares,  at  a  bargain  counter.  It  is  per- 
haps better  to  do  this  than  to  go  without  ideas, 
but  it  is  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  on  the  bargain 
counter  one  is  sure  to  find  only  cheap  or  damaged 
wares. 

Real  talk  about  books,  however,  the  expression 
of  genuine  opinions  about  real  literature,  is  one 
of  the  most  delightful  of  social  pleasures.  It  is  at 
once  an  enjoyment  and  a  stimulus.  From  it  one 
gets  mental  poise,  clearness  and  readiness  of  ideas, 
and  mental  breadth.  It  is  so  important  an  element 
in  human  intercourse  that  it  is  difficult  to  conceive 


I 


THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE  41 

of  an  ideal  friendship  into  which  it  does  not  enter. 
There  have  been  happy  marriages  between  men 
and  women  lacking  in  cultivation,  but  no  marriage 
relation  can  be  so  harmonious  that  it  may  not 
be  enriched  by  a  community  of  literary  tastes.  A 
wise  old  gentleman  whom  I  once  knew  had  what 
he  called  an  infallible  receipt  for  happy  marriages : 
"  Mutual  love,  a  sense  of  humor,  and  a  liking  for 
the  same  books."  Certainly  with  these  a  good 
deal  else  might  be  overlooked.  Personally  I  have 
much  sympathy  with  the  man  who  is  said  to  have 
claimed  a  divorce  on  the  ground  that  his  wife  did 
not  like  Shakespeare  and  would  read  Ouida.  It 
is  a  serious  trial  to  find  the  person  with  whom  one 
must  live  intimately  incapable  of  intellectual  talk. 

He  who  goes  into  general  society  at  all  is  ex- 
pected to  be  able  to  keep  up  at  least  the  appearance 
of  talking  about  literature  with  some  degree  of  in- 
telligence. This  is  an  age  in  which  the  opportuni- 
ties for  what  may  be  called  cosmopolitan  knowledge 
are  so  general  that  it  has  come  to  be  the  tacit  claim 
of  any  society  worth  the  name  that  such  know- 
ledge shall  be  possessed  by  all.  I  do  not,  of  course, 
mean  simply  that  acquaintance  with  foreign  affairs 
which  is  to  be  obtained  from  the  newspapers,  even 
all  wisdom  as  set  forth  in  their  vexingly  voluminous 
Sunday  editions.  I  mean  that  it  is  necessary  to 
have  with  the  thought  of  other  countries,  with  their 
customs,  and  their  habits  of  thought,  that  famil- 
iarity which  is  by  most  to  be  gained  only  by  gen- 
eral reading.  The  multiplication  of  books  and  the 
modern  habit  of  travel  have  made  an  acquaintance 


42  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

with  tlie  temper  of  different  peoples  a  social  neces- 
sity almost  absolute. 

To  a  great  extent  is  it  also  true  that  modern  so- 
ciety expects  a  knowledge  of  social  conditions  and 
gestheiic  affairs  in  the  past.  This  is  not  so  much 
history,  formally  speaking,  as  it  is  the  result  of  a 
certain  familiarity  with  the  ways,  the  habits  of 
thought,  the  manners  of  bygone  folk.  Professor 
Barrett  Wendell  has  an  admirable  phrase :  "  It  is 
only  in  books  that  one  can  travel  in  time."  What 
in  the  present  state  of  society  is  expected  from  the 
accomplished  man  or  woman  is  that  he  or  she  shall 
have  traveled  in  time.  He  shall  have  gone  back 
into  the  past  in  the  same  sense  as  far  as  temper  of 
mind  is  concerned  that  one  goes  to  Europe ;  shall 
have  observed  from  the  point  of  view  not  of  the 
dry  historian  only,  but  from  that  of  the  student  of 
humanity  in  the  broadest  sense.  It  is  the  human- 
ness  of  dwellers  in  distant  lands  or  in  other  times 
which  most  interests  us ;  and  it  is  with  this  that  he 
who  would  shine  in  social  converse  must  become 
familiar. 

The  position  in  which  a  man  finds  himself  who 
in  the  company  of  educated  men  displays  ignorance 
of  what  is  important  in  the  past  is  illustrated  by  a 
story  told  of  Carlyle.  At  a  dinner  of  the  Royal 
Academy  in  London,  Thackeray  and  Carlyle  were 
guests,  and  at  the  table  the  talk  among  the  artists 
around  them  turned  upon  Titian.  "  One  fact  about 
Titian,"  a  painter  said,  "  is  his  glorious  coloring." 
"  And  his  glorious  drawing  is  another  fact  about 
Titian,"  put  in  a  second.     Then  one  added  one 


THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE  43 

thing  in  praise  and  another  another,  until  Carlyle 
interrupted  them,  to  say  with  egotistic  emphasis 
and  deliberation  :  "  And  here  sit  I,  a  man  made  in 
the  image  of  God,  who  knows  nothing  about  Ti- 
tian, and  who  cares  nothing  about  Titian  ;  —  and 
that's  another  fact  about  Titian."  But  Thack- 
eray, who  was  sipping  his  claret  and  listening, 
paused  and  bowed  gravely  to  his  fellow -guest. 
"  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "  that  is  not  a  fact  about 
Titian.  It  is  a  fact  —  and  a  very  lamentable  fact 
—  about  Thomas  Carlyle."  Attempts  to  carry  off 
ignorance  under  the  guise  of  indifference  or  supe- 
riority are  common,  but  in  the  end  nobody  worth 
deceiving  is  misled  by  them. 

It  is  somewhat  trite  to  compare  the  companion- 
ship of  good  books  to  that  of  intellectual  persons, 
and  yet  the  constant  repetition  of  a  truth  does  not 
make  it  false.  To  know  mankind  and  to  know 
one's  self  are  the  great  shaping  forces  which  mould 
character.  It  has  too  often  been  said  to  need  to 
be  insisted  upon  at  any  great  length  that  literature 
may  largely  represent  experience  ;  but  it  may  fitly 
be  added  that  in  reading  one  is  able  to  choose  the 
experiences  to  which  he  will  be  exposed.  In  life 
we  are  often  surrounded  by  what  is  base  and  igno- 
ble, but  this  need  not  happen  to  us  in  the  library 
unless  by  our  deliberate   choice.     Emerson  aptly 


Go  with  mean  people  and  you  think  life  is  mean. 
Then  read  Plutarch,  and  the  world  is  a  proud  place, 
peopled  with  men  of  positive  quality,  with  heroes  and 
demigods  standing  around  us,  who  will  not  let  us 
sleep. 


44  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

It  so  often  happens  that  we  are  compelled  in  daily- 
life  to  encounter  and  to  deal  with  mean  people 
that  our  whole  existence  would  be  in  great  danger 
of  becoming  hopelessly  sordid  and  mean  were  it 
not  for  the  blessed  company  of  great  minds  with 
whom  we  may  hold  closest  communion  through  what 
they  have  written. 

One  more  point  in  regard  to  the  social  influence 
of  reading  should  be  mentioned.  Social  ease  and 
aplomb  can  of  course  be  gained  in  no  way  save 
by  actual  experience  ;  but  apart  from  this  there  is 
nothing  else  so  effective  as  familiarity  with  the 
best  books.  Sympathetic  comprehension  of  litera- 
ture is  the  experience  of  life  taken  vicariously.  It 
is  living  through  the  consciousness  of  others,  and 
those,  moreover,  who  are  the  cleverest  and  most 
far-reaching  minds  of  all  time.  The  mere  man  of 
books  brought  into  contact  with  the  real  world  is 
confused  and  helpless  ;  but  when  once  the  natural 
shyness  and  bewilderment  have  worn  off,  he  is  able 
to  recall  and  to  use  the  knowledge  which  he  has 
acquired  in  the  study,  and  rapidly  adapts  himself 
to  any  sphere  that  he  may  find  himself  in.  I  do 
not  mean  that  a  man  may  read  himself  into  social 
grace  and  ease ;  but  surely  any  given  man  is  at  a 
very  tangible  advantage  in  society  for  having 
learned  from  books  what  society  is. 


IV 

WHY  WE   STUDY   LITERATURE 

In  all  that  is  said  in  the  last  chapter  we  have 
dealt  only  with  the  outward  and  accidental,  barely- 
touching  upon  the  really  significant  and  deeper 
meanings  of  our  subject.  The  third  object  which 
I  named,  the  gaining  a  knowledge  of  life,  tran- 
scends all  others. 

The  desire  to  fathom  the  meaning  of  life  is  the 
most  constant  and  universal  of  human  longings. 
It  is  practically  impossible  to  conceive  of  conscious- 
ness separated  from  the  wish  to  understand  self 
and  the  significance  of  existence.  This  atom  self- 
hood, sphered  about  by  the  infinite  spaces  of  the 
universe,  yearns  to  comprehend  what  and  where  it 
is.  It  sends  its  thought  to  the  farthest  star  that 
watches  the  night,  and  thence  speeds  it  down  the 
unsounded  void,  to  search  unweariedly  for  the  an- 
swer of  the  baffling,  insistent  riddle  of  life.  What- 
ever man  does  or  dreams,  hopes  or  fears,  loves  or 
hates,  suffers  or  enjoys,  has  behind  it  the  eternal 
doubt,  the  question  which  man  asks  of  the  universe 
with  passionate  persistence,  —  the  meaning  of  life. 

Most  of  all  does  man  seek  aid  in  solving  this  ab- 
sorbing mystery.  Nothing  else  interests  the  human 
like   the   human.     The  slatternly  women   leaning 


46  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

out  of  tenement-liouse  windows  and  gossiping  across 
squalid  courts  talk  of  their  neighbors.  The  wisest 
philosopher  studies  the  acts  and  the  thoughts  of 
men.  In  the  long  range  between  these  extremes 
there  is  every  grade  of  intelligence  and  cultivation  ; 
and  in  each  it  is  the  doings,  the  thoughts,  most  of 
all  the  feelings,  of  mankind  which  elicit  the  keen- 
est interest.  The  motto  of  the  Latin  playwright  is 
in  reality  the  motto  of  the  race  :  "  Nothing  human 
is  indifferent  to  me." 

We  are  all  intensely  eager  to  know  what  are  the 
possibilities  of  humanity.  We  seek  knowledge  of 
them  as  an  heir  questions  searchingly  concerning 
the  extent  of  the  inheritance  which  has  fallen  to 
him.  Literature  is  the  inventory  of  the  heritage 
of  humanity.  Life  is  but  a  succession  of  emotions  ; 
and  the  earnest  mind  burns  with  desire  to  learn 
what  emotions  are  within  its  possibilities.  The 
discoverer  of  an  unsuspected  capability  of  receiving 
delight,  the  realization  of  an  unknown  sensation, 
even  of  pain,  increases  by  so  much  the  extent  of 
the  possessions  of  the  human  being  to  whom  he 
imparts  it.  As  explorers  in  a  new  country  tell 
one  another  of  the  springs  upon  which  they  have 
chanced,  of  the  fertile  meadows  one  has  found,  of 
the  sterile  rocks  or  the  luscious  jungle,  so  men 
tell  one  another  of  their  fresh  findings  in  emotion. 
The  knowledge  of  life  —  this  is  the  passionate 
quest  of  the  whole  race  of  men. 

All  that  most  deeply  concerns  man,  all  that 
reaches  most  penetratingly  to  the  roots  of  being, 
is  recorded,  so  far  as  humanity  has  been  able  to 


WHY   WE  STUDY  LITERATURE  47 

give  to  it  expression,  in  art.  Of  all  art,  literature 
is  perhaps  the  most  universally  intelligible ;  or,  if 
not  that,  it  is  at  least  the  most  positively  intelli- 
gible. Our  interest  in  life  shows  itself  in  a  burn- 
ing curiosity  to  know  what  goes  on  in  the  minds 
of  our  friends ;  to  discover  what  others  make  put 
of  existence,  what  they  find  in  its  possibilities,  its 
limitations,  its  sorrows,  and  its  delights.  In  vary- 
ing degrees,  according  to  individual  temperament, 
we  pass  life  in  an  endeavor  to  discover  and  to  share 
the  feelings  of  other  human  beings.  We  explain 
our  feelings,  our  motives ;  we  wonder  whether 
they  look  to  others  as  they  do  to  us ;  we  speculate 
whether  others  have  found  a  way  to  get  from  life 
more  than  we  get ;  and  above  all  are  we  consciously 
or  unconsciously  eager  to  learn  whether  any  other 
has  contrived  means  of  finding  in  life  more  vivid 
sensations,  more  vibrant  emotions,  more  far-reach- 
ing feelings  than  those  which  we  experience.  It 
is  in  this  insatiable  curiosity  that  our  deepest  in- 
terest in  literature  lies. 

Books  explain  us  to  ourselves.  They  reveal  to 
us  capabilities  in  our  nature  before  unsuspected. 
They  make  intelligible  the  meaning  and  signifi- 
cance of  mental  experiences.  There  are  books  the 
constant  rereading  of  which  presents  itself  to  an 
imaginative  man  as  a  sort  of  moral  duty,  so  great 
is  the  illumination  which  they  throw  upon  the 
inner  being.  I  could  name  works  which  I  person- 
ally cannot  leave  long  neglected  without  a  feeling 
of  conscious  guilt.  It  is  of  books  of  this  nature 
that  Emerson  says  that  they 


48  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

Take  rank  in  our  life  with  parents  and  lovers  and 
passionate  experiences,  so  medicinal,  so  stringent,  so 
revolutionary,  so  authoritative,  — books  which  are  the 
work  and  the  proof  of  faculties  so  comprehensive,  so 
nearly  equal  to  the  world  which  they  paint,  that 
though  one  shuts  them  with  meaner  ones,  he  feels  the 
exclusion  from  them  to  accuse  his  way  of  living.  — 
Books. 


There  are  probably  none  of  us  who  have  lived 
in  vital  relations  to  literature  who  cannot  remem- 
ber some  book  which  has  been  an  epoch  in  our 
lives.  The  times  and  the  places  when  and  where 
we  read  them  stand  out  in  memory  as  those  of 
great  mental  crises.  We  recall  the  unforgettable 
night  in  which  we  sat  until  the  cold  gray  dawn 
looked  in  at  the  window  reading  Lessing's  "Na- 
than the  Wise,"  the  sunny  slope  where  we  experi- 
enced Madame  de  Gasparin's  "  Near  and  Heavenly 
Horizons,"  the  winter  twilight  in  the  library  when 
that  most  strenuous  trumpet  blast  of  all  modern 
ethical  poetry,  "  Childe  Koland  to  the  Dark  Tower 
Came,"  first  rang  in  the  ears  of  the  inner  self. 
We  all  have  these  memories.  There  are  books 
which  must  to  us  always  be  alive.  They  have 
spoken  to  us  ;  we  have  heard  their  very  voices ;  we 
know  them  in  our  heart  of  hearts. 

That  desire  for  sympathy  which  is  universal  is 
another  strong  incentive  to  acquaintance  with  lit- 
erature. The'  savage  who  is  less  miserable  in  fear 
or  in  suffering  if  he  find  a  fellow  whose  living 
presence  saves  him  from  the  awful  sense  of  being 
alone  is  unconsciously  moved  by  this  desire.     The 


WHY  WE  STUDY  LITERATURE  49 

more  fully  the  race  is  developed  the  more  is  this 
craving  for  human  companionship  and  human  ap- 
preciation conscious.  We  know  how  impossible  it 
is  ever  completely  to  blend  our  consciousness  for 
the  smallest  instant  with  that  of  any  other  human 
being.  The  nearest  approach  to  this  is  the  shar- 
ing with  another  some  common  feeling.  There  are 
blissful  moments  when  some  other  is  absorbed  in 
the  same  emotion  as  that  which  we  feel ;  when  we 
seem  to  be  one  with  the  heart  and  the  mind  of 
another  creature  because  the  same  strong  passion 
sways  us  both.  These  are  the  mountain-tops  of 
existence.  These  are  the  times  which  stand  out  in 
our  remembrance  as  those  in  which  life  has  touched 
in  seeming  the  divine  impossible. 

It  is  of  the  greatest  rarity,  however,  that  we 
find,  even  in  our  closest  friends,  that  comprehen- 
sion and  delicate  sympathy  for  which  we  long. 
Indeed,  such  is  human  egotism  that  it  is  all  but 
impossible  for  any  one  so  far  to  abandon  his  own 
personality  as  to  enter  fully  into  the  more  delicate 
and  intangible  feelings  of  his  fellow.  A  friend  is 
another  self,  according  to  the  proverb,  but  it  is  apt 
to  be  himself  and  not  yourself.  To  find  sympathy 
which  comes  from  a  knowledge  that  our  inmost 
emotions  are  shared  we  turn  to  books.  Especially 
is  this  true  in  bereavement  and  in  sorrow.  The 
touch  of  a  human  hand,  the  wistful  look  in  the  eye 
of  the  friend  who  longs  to  help,  or  the  mere  pres- 
ence of  some  beautiful  and  responsive  spirit,  is  the 
best  solace  where  comfort  is  impossible ;  but  even 
the  tenderest  human  presence  may  jar,  while  in 


60  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

books  there  is  a  consolation  and  a  tenderness  un- 
hampered by  the  baffling  sense  of  a  consciousness 
still  outside  of  our  own  no  matter  how  strenuously 
it  longs  to  be  in  perfect  unity.  I  knew  once  a 
mother  who  had  lost  her  only  child,  and  who  used 
to  sit  for  hours  pressing  to  her  heart  Plutarch's 
divinely  tender  letter  to  his  wife  on  the  death  of 
his  own  little  one.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  felt  her 
baby  again  in  her  arms,  and  the  leather  covers  of 
the  book  were  stained  with  tears  consecrated  and 
saving.  Who  could  count  the  number  to  whom 
"  In  Memoriam  "  has  carried  comfort  when  living 
friends  had  no  message  ?  The  critical  defects  of 
that  poem  are  not  far  to  seek ;  but  it  would  ill  be- 
come us  to  forget  how  many  grief-laden  hearts  it 
has  reached  and  touched.  The  book  which  lessens 
the  pain  of  humanity  is  in  so  far  higher  than  criti- 
cism. 

Josiah  Quincy  used  in  his  old  age  to  relate  how 
his  mother,  left  a  young  widow  by  the  death  of  her 
husband  within  sight  of  the  shores  of  America  when 
on  his  return  from  a  mission  to  England,  found 
comfort  in  the  soothing  ministration  of  books  :  — 

She  cultivated  the  memory  of  my  father,  even  in 
my  earliest  childhood,  by  reading  me  passages  from 
the  poets,  and  obliging  me  to  learn  by  heart  and  re- 
peat such  as  were  best  adapted  to  her  own  circum- 
stances and  feelings.  Among  others  the  whole  leave- 
taking  of  Hector  and  Andromache,  in  the  sixth  book 
of  Pope's  Homer,  was  one  of  her  favorite  lessons.  .  .  • 
Her  imagination,  probably,  found  consolation  in  the 
repetition  of  lines  which  brought  to  mind  and  seemed 
to  typify  her  own  great  bereavement. 


WHY  WE  STUDY  LITERATURE  51 

And  think'st  thou  not  how  wretched  we  shall  be,  — 
A  widow  I,  a  helpless  orphan  he  ? 

These  lines,  and  the  whole  tenor  of  Andromache's  ad- 
dress and  circumstances,  she  identified  with  her  own 
sufferings,  which  seemed  relieved  by  the  tears  my  repe- 
tition of  them  drew  from  her. 

This  comforting  power  of  literature  is  one  which 
need  not  perhaps  have  been  enlarged  upon  so  fully, 
but  it  is  one  which  has  to  do  with  the  most  inti- 
mate and  poignant  relations  of  life. 

It  is  largely  in  virtue  of  the  sympathy  which  it 
is  possible  to  feel  for  books  that  from  them  we  not 
only  receive  a  knowledge  of  the  capacities  of  human 
emotion,  but  we  are  given  actual  emotional  experi- 
ence as  well.  For  literature  has  a  twofold  office. 
It  not  only  shows  the  possibilities  of  life,  but  it 
may  make  these  possibilities  realities.  If  art  sim- 
ply showed  us  what  might  be  without  aiding  us 
further,  it  would  be  but  a  banquet  of  Tantalus. 
We  must  have  the  substance  as  well  as  the  shadow. 
We  are  born  not  only  with  a  craving  to  know  what 
emotions  are  the  birthright  of  man,  but  with  an 
instinctive  desire  to  enter  into  that  inheritance. 
We  wish  to  be  all  that  it  is  possible  for  men  to  be. 
The  small  boy  who  burns  to  be  a  pirate  or  a  police- 
man when  he  grows  up,  is  moved  by  the  idea  that 
to  men  of  these  somewhat  analogous  callings  come 
a  richness  of  adventure  and  a  fullness  of  sensation 
which  are  not  to  be  found  in  ordinary  lives.  The 
lad  does  not  reason  this  out,  of  course ;  but  the 
instinctive  desire  for  emotion  speaks  in  him.  We 
are  bom  with  the  ci'aving  to  know  to  the  full  the 


62  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

emotions  of  the  race.  It  is  to  few  of  us  in  modern 
civilized  life  that  circumstances  permit  a  widely 
extended  experience  in  actual  mental  sensations. 
The  commonplace  actualities  of  every-day  life  show 
plain  and  dull  beside  the  almost  infinite  possibili- 
ties of  existence.  The  realization  of  the  contrast 
makes  not  a  few  mortals  unhappy  and  dissatis- 
fied ;  but  those  who  are  wiser  accept  life  as  it 
is,  and  turn  to  art  for  the  gratification  of  the  in- 
stinctive craving  which  is  unsatisfied  by  outward 
reality. 

It  may  be  that  fate  has  condemned  us  to  the 
most  humdrum  of  existences.  We  trade  or  we 
teach  or  are  lawyers  or  housekeepers,  doctors  or 
nurses,  or  the  curse  of  the  gods  has  fallen  unon  us 
and  we  are  condemned  to  the  dreariness  of  a  life 
of  pleasure-seeking.  We  cannot  of  ourselves  know 
the  delights  of  the  free  outlaw's  life  under  "  the 
greene  shaw,"  —  the  chase  of  the  deer,  the  twang 
of  the  bowstring,  the  song  of  the  minstrel,  the 
relish  of  venison  pasty  and  humming  nut-brown 
ale,  are  not  for  us  in  the  flesh.  If  we  go  into  the 
library,  however,  take  down  that  volume  with  the 
cover  of  worn  brown  leather,  and  give  up  the  ima- 
gination to  the  guidance  of  the  author,  all  these 
things  become  possible  to  the  inner  sense.  We 
become  aware  of  the  reek  of  the  woodland  fire,  the 
smell  of  the  venison  roasting  on  spits  of  ash-wood, 
the  chatter  of  deep  manly  voices,  the  cheery  sound 
of  the  bugle-horn  afar,  the  misty  green  light  of 
the  forest,  the  soft  sinking  feel  of  the  moss  upon 
which   in    imagination   we    have    flung   ourselves 


WHY  WE  STUDY  LITERATURE  53 

down,  while  Will  Scarlet  teases  Friar  Tuck  yon- 
der, and  Allan-a-Dale  touches  light  wandering 
chords  on  his  harp.  —  Ah,  where  are  the  four 
walls  of  the  library,  where  is  the  dull  round  of 
cares  and  trifles  which  involve  us  day  by  day? 
We  are  in  merry  Sherwood  with  bold  Robin  Hood, 
and  we  know  what  there  was  felt  and  lived. 

We  cannot  in  outward  experience  know  how 
a  great  and  generous  heart  must  feel,  broken  by 
ingratitude  and  unfaith,  deceived  and  tortured 
through  its  noblest  qualities,  outraged  in  its  high- 
est love.  The  poet  says  to  us :  "  Come  with  me ; 
and  through  the  power  of  the  imagination,  talis- 
man more  potent  than  the  ring  of  Solomon,  we 
will  enter  the  heart  of  Othello,  and  with  him 
suffer  this  agony.  We  will  endure  the  torture, 
since  behind  it  is  the  exquisite  delight  of  appeas- 
ing that  insatiable  thirst  for  a  share  in  human 
emotions.  Or  would  you  taste  the  passion  of 
young  and  ardent  hearts,  their  woe  at  parting,  and 
their  resolved  devotion  which  death  itseK  cannot 
abate  ?  We  will  be  one  with  Romeo  and  one  with 
Juliet."  Thus,  if  we  will,  we  may  go  with  him 
through  the  entire  range  of  mortal  joys  and  sor- 
rows. We  live  with  a  fullness  of  living  beside 
which,  it  may  be,  our  ordinary  existence  is  flat 
and  pale.  We  find  the  real  life,  the  life  of  the 
imagination;  and  we  recognize  that  this  is  after 
all  more  vital  than  our  concern  over  the  price  of 
stocks,  our  petty  bother  about  the  invitation  to 
the  Hightops'  ball  on  the  twenty-fourth,  or  the 
silly  pang  of  brief  jealousy  which  we  experienced 


64  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

when  we  heard  that  Jack  Scribbler's  sonnet  was  to 
appear  in  the  next  number  of  the  magazine  which 
had  just  returned  our  own  poem  "with  thanks." 
The  littlenesses  of  the  daily  round  slip  out  of 
sight  before  the  nobility  of  the  life  possible  in 
the  imagination. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  multiply  examples  of  the 
pleasures  possible  through  the  imagination.  Every 
reader  knows  how  varied  and  how  enchanting  they 
are.  To  enter  into  them  is  in  so  far  to  fulfill  the 
possibilities  of  life.  The  knowledge  which  is  ob- 
tained through  books  is  not  the  same,  it  is  true,  as 
that  which  comes  from  actual  doing  and  enduring. 
Perhaps  if  the  imagination  were  sufficiently  devel- 
oped there  would  be  little  difference.  There  have 
been  men  who  have  been  hardly  able  to  distinguish 
between  what  they  experienced  in  outward  life 
and  what  belonged  solely  to  the  inner  existence. 
Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  and  Keats  made  no 
great  or  sharply  defined  distinction  between  the 
things  which  were  true  in  fact  and  those  that  were 
true  in  imagination.  To  Blake  the  events  of  life 
were  those  which  he  knew  through  imagination, 
while  what  happened  in  ordinary,  every-day  exis- 
tence he  regarded  as  the  accidental  and  the  non- 
essential. 

It  will  probably  be  thought,  however,  that  those 
who  live  most  abundantly  are  not  likely  to  feel 
the  need  of  testing  existence  and  tasting  emotions 
through  the  medium  of  letters.  The  pirate,  when 
decks  are  red  and  smoke  of  powder  is  in  the  air, 
is  not  likely  to  retire  to  his  cabin  for  a  session  of 


WHY  WE  STUDY  LITERATURE  55 

quiet  and  delightful  reading ;  the  lover  may  peruse 
sentimental  ballads  or  make  them,  but  on  the 
whole  everything  else  is  subordinate  to  the  romance 
he  is  living.  It  is  when  his  lady-love  keeps  him 
at  a  distance  that  he  has  time  for  verse  ;  not  when 
she  graciously  allows  him  near.  It  is  told  of  Dar- 
win that  his  absorption  in  science  destroyed  not 
only  his  love  of  Shakespeare  but  even  his  power  of 
enjoying  music.  The  actual  interests  of  life  were 
so  vivid  that  the  artistic  sense  was  numbed.  The 
imagination  exhausted  itself  in  exploring  the  un- 
known world  of  scientific  knowledge.  It  is  to  be 
noted  that  boys  who  go  deeply  into  college  sports, 
especially  if  they  are  on  the  "  teams,"  are  likely 
to  become  so  absorbed  in  the  sporting  excitement 
that  literature  appears  to  them  flat  and  tame.  The 
general  rule  is  that  he  who  lives  in  stimulating 
and  absorbing  realities  is  thereby  likely  to  be  in- 
clined to  care  less  for  literature. 

It  is  to  be  remembered,  however,  that  individual 
experience  is  apt  to  be  narrow,  and  that  it  may  be 
positively  trivial  and  still  engross  the  mind.  That 
one  is  completely  given  up  to  affairs  does  not 
necessarily  prove  these  affairs  to  be  noble.  It  is 
generally  agreed,  too,  that  the  mind  is  more  elas- 
tic which  is  reached  and  developed  by  literature; 
and  that  even  the  scientist  is  likely  to  do  better 
work  for  having  ennobled  his  perceptions  by  con- 
tact with  the  thoughts  of  master  spirits.  Before 
Darwin  was  able  to  advance  so  far  in  science  as 
to  have  no  room  left  for  art,  he  had  trained  his 
faculties  by  the  best  literature.     At  least  it  is  time 


56  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

enough  to  give  up  books  when  life  has  become  so 
full  of  action  as  to  leave  no  room  for  them.  This 
happens  to  few,  and  even  those  of  whom  it  is  true 
cannot  afford  to  do  without  literature  as  an  agent 
in  the  development  and  shaping  of  character. 

The  good  which  we  gain  from  the  experiences 
of  life  we  call  insight.  No  man  or  woman  ever 
loved  without  thereby  gaining  insight  into  what 
life  really  is.  No  man  has  stood  smoke-stained 
and  blood-spattered  in  the  midst  of  battle,  caught 
away  out  of  self  in  an  ecstasy  of  daring,  without 
thereby  learning  hitherto  undreamed-of  possibili- 
ties in  existence.  Indeed  this  is  true  of  the  small- 
est incident.  Character  is  the  result  of  experience 
upon  temperament,  as  ripple-marks  are  the  result 
of  the  coming  together  of  sand  and  wave.  In  life, 
however,  we  are  generally  more  slow  to  learn  the 
lessons  from  events  than  from  books.  The  author 
of  genius  has  the  art  so  to  arrange  and  present 
his  truths  as  to  impress  them  upon  the  reader. 
The  impressions  of  events  remain  with  us,  but  it 
is  not  easy  for  ordinary  mortals  so  to  realize  their 
meaning  and  so  to  phrase  it  that  it  shall  remain 
permanent  and  clear  in  the  mind.  The  mental 
vision  is  clouded,  moreover,  by  the  personal  ele- 
ment. We  are  seldom  able  to  be  perfectly  frank 
with  ourselves.  Self  is  ever  the  apologist  for  self. 
Knowledge  without  self-honesty  is  as  a  torch  with- 
out flame  ;  yet  of  all  the  moral  graces  self -honesty 
is  perhaps  the  most  difficult  to  acquire.  In  its 
acquirement  is  literature  of  the  highest  value.  A 
man  can  become  acquainted  with  his  spiritual  face 


WHY  WE  STUDY  LITERATURE  57 

as  with  his  bodily  countenance  only  by  its  reflec- 
tion. Literature  is  the  mirror  in  which  the  soul 
learns  to  recognize  its  own  lineaments. 

Above  all  these  personal  reasons  which  make 
literature  worthy  of  the  serious  attention  of  ear- 
nest men  and  women  is  the  great  fact  that  upon  the 
proper  development  and  the  proper  understanding 
of  it  depend  largely  the  advancement  and  the  wise 
ordering  of  civilization.  Stevenson  spoke  words  of 
wisdom  when  he  said :  — 

One  thing  you  can  never  make  Philistine  natures 
understand;  one  thing,  which  yet  lies  on  the  surface, 
remains  as  unseizable  to  their  wits  as  a  high  flight  of 
metaphysics,  — namely,  that  the  business  of  life  is 
mainly  carried  on  by  the  difiicult  art  of  literature, 
and  according  to  a  man's  proficiency  in  that  art  shall 
be  the  freedom  and  fullness  of  his  intercourse  with 
other  men. 

In  a  fine  passage  in  a  little-known  pamphlet,  James 
Hannay  touches  upon  the  relation  of  literature  to 
life  and  to  the  practical  issues  of  society :  — 

A  notion  is  abroad  that  that  only  is  "practical " 
which  can  be  measured  or  eaten.  Show  us  its  net 
result  in  marketable  form,  the  people  say,  and  we 
will  recognize  it!  But  what  if  there  be  something 
prior  to  all  such  "net  results,"  something  higher  than 
it?  For  example,  the  writing  of  an  old  Hebrew 
Prophet  was  by  no  manner  of  means  "practical  "  in 
his  own  times!  The  supply  of  figs  to  the  Judean 
markets,  the  price  of  oil  in  the  synagogue-lamps,  did 
not  fluctuate  with  the  breath  of  those  inspired  songs ! 
But  in  due  time  the  prophet  dies,  stoned,  perhaps, 
%   .   .   and  in  the  course  of  ages,  his  words  do  have  a 


68  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

"practical "  result  by  acting  on  the  minds  of  nations. 
...  In  England  what  has  not  happened  from  the 
fact  that  the  Bible  was  translated  ?  We  have  seen 
the  Puritans  —  we  know  what  we  owe  to  them  — 
what  the  world  owes  to  them!  A  dozen  or  two  of 
earnest  men  two  centuries  ago  were  stirred  to  the 
depths  of  their  souls  by  the  visions  of  earnest  men 
many  centuries  before  that  ;  do  you  not  see  that  the 
circumstance  has  its  practical  influence  in  the  cotton- 
markets  of  America  at  this  hour  ?  —  Quoted  in  Espi- 
nasse's  Literary  Recollections. 

It  is  impossible  to  separate  the  influences  of  lit- 
erature from  the  growth  of  society  and  of  civili- 
zation. It  is  because  of  the  reaching  of  the  im- 
agination into  the  unknown  vast  which  incloses 
man  that  life  is  what  it  is.  The  order  that  is  given 
to  butcher  or  baker  or  candlestick-maker  is  modi- 
fied by  the  fact  that  Homer  and  Dante  and  Shake- 
speare sang ;  that  the  prophets  and  the  poets  and 
the  men  of  imagination  of  whatever  time  and  race 
have  made  thought  and  feeling  what  they  are. 
"  The  world  of  imagination,"  Blake  wrote,  "  is  the 
world  of  eternity."  Whatever  of  permanent  inter- 
est and  value  man  has  achieved  he  has  reached 
through  this  divine  faculty,  and  it  is  only  when 
man  learns  to  know  and  to  enter  the  world  of  im- 
agination that  he  comes  into  actual  contact  with 
the  vital  and  the  fundamental  in  human  life. 
Easily  abused,  like  all  the  best  gifts  of  the  gods, 
art  remains  the  noblest  and  the  most  enduring 
power  at  work  in  civilization  ;  and  literature  is  its 
most  direct  embodiment.  To  it  we  go  when  we 
would  leave  behind  the  sordid,  the  mean,  and  the 


WHY  WE  STUDY  LITERATURE  59 

belittling.  When  we  would  enter  into  our  birth- 
right, when  we  remember  that  instead  of  being 
mere  creatures  of  the  dust  we  are  the  heirs  of  the 
ages,  then  it  is  through  books  that  we  find  and 
possess  the  treasures  of  the  race. 


FALSE  METHODS 

The  most  common  intellectual  difficulty  is  not 
that  of  the  lack  of  ideas,  but  that  of  vagueness  of 
ideas.  Most  persons  of  moderately  good  education 
have  plenty  of  thoughts  such  as  they  are,  but  there 
is  a  nebulous  quality  about  these  which  renders 
them  of  little  use  in  reasoning.  This  makes  it 
necessary  to  define  what  is  meant  by  the  Study 
of  Literature,  as  in  the  first  place  it  was  necessary 
to  define  literature  itself.  Many  have  a  formless 
impression  that  it  is  something  done  with  books,  a 
sort  of  mysterious  rite  known  only  to  the  initiated, 
and  probably  a  good  deal  like  the  mysteries  of 
secret  societies,  —  more  of  a  theory  than  an  actu- 
ality. Others,  who  are  more  confident  of  their 
powers  of  accurate  thinking,  have  decided  that  the 
phrase  is  merely  a  high-sounding  name  for  any 
reading  which  is  not  agreeable,  but  which  is  recom- 
mended by  text-books.  Some  take  it  to  be  getting 
over  all  the  books  possible,  good,  bad,  and  indif- 
ferent ;  while  still  others  suppose  it  to  be  reading 
about  books  or  their  authors.  There  are  plenty 
of  ideas  as  to  what  the  study  of  literature  is,  but 
the  very  diversity  of  opinion  proves  that  at  least 
a  great  many  of  these  must  be  erroneous. 


FALSE  METHODS  61 

In  the  first  place  the  study  of  literature  is  not 
the  mere  reading  of  books.  Going  on  a  sort  of 
Cook's  tour  through  literature,  checking  off  on 
lists  what  one  has  read,  may  be  amusing  to  simple 
souls,  but  beyond  that  it  means  little  and  effects 
little.  As  the  question  to  be  asked  in  regard  to  a 
tourist  is  how  intelligently  and  how  observantly  he 
has  traveled,  so  the  first  consideration  in  regard  to 
a  reader  is  how  he  reads. 

The  rage  for  swiftness  which  is  so  characteristic 
of  this  restless  time  has  been  extended  to  fashions 
of  reading.  By  some  sort  of  a  vicious  perversion, 
the  old  saw  that  he  who  runs  may  read  seems 
to  have  been  transposed  to  "  He  who  reads  must 
run."  In  other  words  there  is  too  often  an  as- 
sumption that  the  intellectual  distinction  of  an 
individual  is  to  be  estimated  by  the  rapidity  with 
which  he  is  able  to  hurry  through  the  volumes  he 
handles.  Intellectual  assimilation  takes  time.  The 
mind  is  not  to  be  enriched  as  a  coal  barge  is  loaded. 
Whatever  is  precious  in  a  cargo  is  taken  carefully 
on  board  and  carefully  placed.  Whatever  is  deli- 
cate and  fine  must  be  received  delicately,  and  its 
place  in  the  mind  thoughtfully  assigned. 

One  effect  of  the  modern  habit  of  swift  and 
careless  reading  is  seen  in  the  impatience  with 
which  anything  is  regarded  which  is  not  to  be 
taken  in  at  a  glance.  The  modern  reader  is  apt 
to  insist  that  a  book  shall  be  like  a  theatre-poster. 
He  must  be  able  to  take  it  all  in  with  a  look  as 
he  goes  past  it  on  a  wheel,  and  if  he  cannot  he 
declares  that  it  is  obscure.    W.  M.  Himt  said,  with 


62  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

bitter  wisdom:  "As  print  grows  cheap,  thinkers 
grow  scarce."  The  enormous  increase  of  books 
has  bred  a  race  of  readers  who  seem  to  feel  that 
the  object  of  reading  is  not  to  read  but  to  have 
read ;  not  to  enjoy  and  assimilate,  but  to  have 
turned  over  the  greatest  possible  number  of  au- 
thors. This  idea  of  the  study  of  literature  is  as  if 
one  selected  as  the  highest  social  ideal  the  after- 
noon tea,  where  the  visitor  is  presented  to  number- 
less strangers  and  has. an  opportunity  of  conversing 
rationally  with  nobody. 

A  class  of  self-styled  students  of  literature  far 
more  pernicious  than  even  the  record-breaking 
readers  is  that  of  the  gossip-mongers.  These  are 
they  who  gratify  an  innate  fondness  of  gossip  and 
scandal  under  the  pretext  of  seeking  culture,  and 
who  feed  an  impertinent  curiosity  in  the  name  of 
a  noble  pursuit.  They  read  innumerable  volumes 
filled  with  the  more  or  less  spicy  details  of  authors ; 
they  perhaps  visit  the  spots  where  the  geniuses  of 
the  world  lived  and  worked.  They  peruse  eagerly 
every  scrap  of  private  letters,  journals,  and  other 
personal  matter  which  is  available.  For  them  are 
dragged  to  light  all  the  imperfect  manuscripts 
which  famous  novelists  have  forgotten  to  burn. 
For  them  was  perpetrated  the  infamy  of  the  pub- 
lication of  the  correspondence  of  Keats  with  Miss 
Brawne ;  to  them  Mrs.  Stowe  appealed  in  her  foul 
book  about  Byron,  which  should  have  been  burned 
by  the  common  hangman.  It  is  they  who  buy  the 
newspaper  descriptions  of  the  back  bedroom  of 
the  popular  novelist  and  the  accounts  of  the  mis- 


FALSE  METHODS  63 

understanding  between  the  poet  and  his  washer^ 
woman.  They  scent  scandal  as  swine  scent  truf- 
fles, and  degrade  the  noble  name  of  literature  by 
making  it  an  excuse  for  their  petty  vulgarity. 

The  race  is  by  no  means  a  new  one.  Milton 
complained  of  it  in  the  early  days  of  the  church, 
when,  he  says  :  — 

With  less  fervency  was  studied  what  St.  Paul  or 
St.  John  had  written  than  was  listened  to  one  that 
could  say  :  "  Here  he  taught,  here  he  stood,  this  was 
his  stature,  and  thus  he  went  habited,"  and,  "  O 
happy  this  house  that  harbored  him,  and  that  cold 
stone  whereon  he  rested,  this  village  where  he  wrought 
a  miracle." 

Schopenhauer,  too,  has  his  indignant  protest 
against  this  class  :  — 

Petrarch's  house  in  Arqua,  Tasso's  supposed  prison 
in  Ferrara,  Shakespeare's  house  in  Stratford,  Goethe's 
house  in  Weimar,  with  its  furniture,  Kant's  old  hat, 
the  autographs  of  great  men,  —  these  things  are  gaped 
at  with  interest  and  awe  by  many  who  have  never 
read  their  works. 

All  this  is  of  course  a  matter  of  personal  vanity. 
Small  souls  pride  themselves  upon  having  these 
things,  upon  knowing  intimate  details  of  the  lives 
of  prominent  persons.  They  endeavor  thus  to  at- 
tach themselves  to  genius,  as  burrs  cling  to  the 
mane  of  a  lion.  The  imagination  has  nothing  to 
do  with  it ;  there  is  in  it  no  love  of  literature.  It 
is  vanity  pure  and  simple,  a  common  vulgar  van- 
ity which  substitutes  self-advertisement  and  gossip- 
mongering  for    respect    and   appreciation.     Who 


64  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

can  have  tolerance  for  the  man  whose  proudest 
boast  is  that  he  was  in  a  crowd  presented  to  some 
poet  whose  books  he  never  read;  for  the  woman 
who  claims  attention  on  the  ground  that  she  has 
from  her  seamstress  heard  particulars  of  the  do- 
mestic infelicities  of  a  great  novelist ;  or  for  the 
gossip  of  either  sex  who  takes  pride  in  knowing 
about  famous  folk  trifles  which  are  nobody's  busi- 
ness but  their  own  ? 

A  good  many  text-books  encourage  this  folly, 
and  there  are  not  a  few  writers  who  pass  their 
useless  days  in  grubbing  in  the  dust-heaps  of  the 
past  to  discover  the  unessential  and  unmeaning 
incidents  in  the  lives  of  bygone  worthies.  They 
put  on  airs  of  vast  superiority  over  mortals  who 
scorn  their  ways  and  words ;  they  have  only  pity- 
ing contempt  for  readers  who  suppose  that  the 
works  of  an  author  are  what  the  world  should 
be  concerned  with  instead  of  his  grocery  bills  and 
the  dust  on  his  library  table.  Such  meddlers 
have  no  more  to  do  with  literature  than  the  spider 
on  the  eaves  of  kings'  houses  has  to  do  with  affairs 
of  state. 

It  is  not  that  all  curiosity  about  famous  men  is 
unwholesome  or  impertinent.  The  desire  to  know 
about  those  whose  work  has  touched  us  is  natural 
and  not  necessarily  objectionable.  It  is  outside  of 
the  study  of  literature,  save  in  so  far  as  it  now 
and  then — less  often,  I  believe,  than  is  usually 
assumed — may  help  us  to  understand  what  an 
author  has  written ;  yet  within  proper  limits  it  is 
to  be  indulged  in,  just  as  we  aU  indulge  now  and 


FALSE  METHODS  65 

then  in  harmless  gossip  concerning  our  fellows. 
It  is  almost  sure  to  be  a  hindrance  rather  than  a 
help  in  the  study  of  literature  if  it  goes  much  be- 
yond the  knowledge  of  those  circumstances  in  the 
life  of  an  author  which  have  directly  affected  what 
he  has  written.  There  are  few  facts  in  literary 
history  for  which  we  have  so  great  reason  to  be 
devoutly  thankful  as  that  so  little  is  known  con- 
cerning the  life  of  the  greatest  of  poets.  We  are 
able  to  read  Shakespeare  with  little  or  no  inter- 
ruption in  the  way  of  detail  about  his  private 
affairs,  and  for  this  every  lover  of  Shakespeare's 
poetry  should  be  grateful. 

The  study  of  literature,  it  must  be  recognized 
farther,  is  not  the  study  of  the  history  of  lit- 
erature. The  development  of  what  are  termed 
"  schools  "  of  literature ;  the  change  in  fashions  of 
expression ;  the  modifications  in  verse-forms  and 
the  growth  and  decay  of  this  or  that  phase  of 
popular  taste  in  books,  are  all  matters  of  interest 
in  a  way.  They  are  not  of  great  value,  as  a  rule, 
yet  they  will  often  help  the  reader  to  a  somewhat 
quicker  appreciation  of  the  force  and  intention  of 
literary  forms.  It  is  necessary  to  have  at  least  a 
general  idea  of  the  course  of  literary  and  intellect 
tual  growth  through  the  centuries  in  order  to  ap. 
preciate  and  comprehend  literature,  —  the  point  to 
be  kept  in  mind  being  that  this  is  a  means  and 
not  in  itself  an  end.  It  is  necessary,  for  instance^ 
for  the  student  to  toil  painfully  across  the  wastes 
of  print  produced  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
wherein  there  is  little  really  great  save  the  works 


66  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

of  Fielding ;  and  where  the  reader  has  to  endure 
a  host  of  tedious  books  in  order  properly  to  appre- 
ciate the  manly  tenderness  of  Steele,  the  boyishly 
spontaneous  realism  of  Defoe,  the  kindly  humanity 
of  Goldsmith,  and  the  frail,  exquisite  pipe  of  Col- 
lins. The  rest  of  the  eighteenth  century  authors 
most  of  us  read  chiefly  as  a  part  of  the  mechanics 
of  education.  We  could  hardly  get  on  intelli- 
gently without  a  knowledge  of  the  polished  prim- 
ness of  Addison,  genius  of  respectability ;  the  vit- 
riolic venom  of  Swift,  genius  of  malignity;  the 
spiteful  perfection  of  Pope,  genius  of  artificiality ; 
or  the  interminable  attitudinizing  of  Richardson, 
genius  of  sentimentality.  These  authors  we  read 
quite  as  much  as  helps  in  understanding  others  as 
for  their  own  sake.  We  do  not  always  have  the 
courage  to  acknowledge  it,  but  these  men  do  not 
often  touch  our  emotions,  even  though  the  page 
be  that  of  Swift,  so  much  the  greatest  of  them. 
We  examine  the  growth  of  the  romantic  spirit 
through  the  unpoetic  days  between  the  death  of 
Dry  den  and  the  coming  of  Blake  and  Coleridge 
and  Wordsworth ;  and  from  such  examination  of 
the  history  of  literature  we  are  better  enabled  to 
form  standards  for  the  actual  estimate  of  literature 
itself. 

There  is  a  wide  and  essential  difference  between 
really  entering  into  literature  and  reading  what 
somebody  else  has  been  pleased  to  say  of  it,  no 
matter  how  wise  and  appreciative  this  may  be. 
Of  course  the  genuine  student  has  small  sympathy 
with  those   demoralizing  flippancies   about   books    , 


FALSE  METHODS  67 

which  are  just  now  so  common  in  the  guise  of 
smart  essays  upon  authors  or  their  works ;  those 
papers  in  which  adroit  literary  hacks  write  about 
books  as  the  things  with  which  they  have  meddled 
most.  The  man  who  reads  for  himself  and  thinks 
for  himself  realizes  that  these  essayists  are  the 
gypsy-moths  of  literature,  living  upon  it  and  at 
the  same  time  doing  their  best  to  destroy  it ;  and 
that  the  reading  of  these  petty  imitations  of  criti- 
cism is  about  as  intellectual  as  sitting  down  in  the 
nursery  to  a  game  of  "  Authors." 

Even  the  reading  of  good  and  valuable  papers 
is  not  the  study  of  literature  in  the  best  sense. 
There  is  much  of  profit  in  such  admirable  essays 
as  those,  for  instance,  of  Lowell,  of  John  Morley, 
or  of  Leslie  Stephen.  Excellent  and  often  inspir- 
ing as  these  may  be,  however,  it  is  not  to  be  for- 
gotten that  as  criticisms  their  worth  lies  chiefly  in 
the  incitement  which  they  give  to  go  to  the  foun- 
tain-head. The  really  fine  essay  upon  a  master- 
piece is  at  its  best  an  eloquent  presentment  of  the 
delights  and  benefits  which  the  essayist  has  received 
from  the  work  of  genius ;  it  shows  the  possibilities 
and  the  worth  within  the  reach  of  all.  Criticisms 
are  easily  abused.  We  are  misusing  the  most  sym- 
pathetic interpretation  when  we  receive  it  dogmat- 
ically. In  so  far  as  they  make  us  see  what  is  high 
and  fine,  they  are  of  value ;  in  so  far  as  we  depend 
upon  the  perceptions  of  the  critic  instead  of  our 
own,  they  are  likely  to  be  a  hindrance.  It  is  easier 
to  think  that  we  perceive  than  it  is  really  to  see ; 
but  it  is  weU  to  remember  that  a  man  may  be  plas- 


68  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

tered  from  head  to  feet  with  the  opinions  of  others, 
and  yet  have  no  more  genuine  ideas  of  his  own 
than  has  a  bill-board  because  it  is  covered  with 
posters.  Genuine  emotion  is  born  of  genuine  con- 
viction. A  reader  is  really  touched  by  a  work  of 
art  only  as  he  enters  into  it  and  comprehends  it 
sympathetically.  Another  may  point  the  way,  but 
he  must  travel  it  for  himself.  Reading  an  imagi- 
native work  is  like  wooing  a  maiden.  Another 
may  give  the  introduction,  but  for  real  acquaint- 
ance and  all  effective  love-making  the  suitor  must 
depend  upon  himself  if  he  would  be  well  sped. 
Critics  may  tell  us  what  they  admire,  but  the  vital 
question  is  what  we  in  all  truth  and  sincerity  ad- 
mire and  appreciate  ourselves. 


VI 

METHODS   OF  STUDY 

We  have  spoken  of  what  the  study  of  literature 
;s  not,  but  negations  do  not  define.  It  is  necessary 
to  look  at  the  affirmative  side  of  the  matter.  And 
arst  it  is  well  to  remark  that  what  we  are  discuss- 
ing is  the  examination  of  literature,  —  literature, 
that  is,  in  the  sense  to  which  we  have  limited  the 
term  by  definition  :  "  The  adequate  expression  of 
genuine  emotion."  It  is  not  intended  to  include 
trash,  whether  that  present  itself  as  undisguised 
rubbish  or  whether  it  mask  under  high-sounding 
names  of  Symbolism,  Impressionism,  Realism,  or 
any  other  affected  nomenclature  whatever.  It  has 
never  been  found  necessary  to  excuse  the  existence 
of  the  masterpieces  of  literature  by  a  labored  lit- 
erary theory  or  a  catchpenny  classification.  It  is 
generally  safe  to  suspect  the  book  which  must  be 
defended  by  a  formula  and  the  writers  who  insist 
that  they  are  the  founders  of  a  school.  There  is 
but  one  school  of  art  —  the  imaginative. 

"  But,"  it  may  be  objected,  "  in  an  age  when  the 
books  of  the  world  are  numbered  by  millions,  when 
it  is  impossible  for  any  reader  to  examine  per- 
sonally more  than  an  insignificant  portion  even  of 
those  thrust  upon  his  notice,  how  is  the  learner  to 


70  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

judge  what  are  worthy  of  his  attention?  To  this 
it  is  to  be  answered  that  there  are  works  enough 
universally  approved  to  keep  the  readiest  reader 
more  than  busy  through  the  span  of  the  longest 
human  life.  We  shall  have  occasion  later  to  speak 
of  especial  authors  and  of  especial  books.  Here 
it  is  enough  to  say  that  certainly  at  the  start  the 
student  must  be  content  to  accept  the  verdict  of 
those  who  are  capable  of  judging  for  him.  Herein 
lies  one  of  the  chief  benefits  to  be  derived  from 
critics  and  essayists.  As  the  learner  advances,  he 
will  find  that  as  his  taste  and  appreciation  advance 
with  them  will  develop  an  instinct  of  choice.  In 
the  end  he  should  be  able  almost  at  a  glance  to 
judge  rightly  whether  a  book  is  worthy  of  atten- 
tion. In  the  meanwhile  he  need  not  go  astray  if 
he  follow  the  lead  of  trustworthy  experts. 

In  accepting  the  opinions  of  others  it  is  of 
course  proper  to  use  some  caution,  and  above  all 
things  it  is  important  to  be  guided  by  common 
sense.  The  market  is  full  of  quack  mental  as  well 
as  of  quack  physical  nostrums.  There  is  a  large 
and  enterprising  body  of  publishers  who  seem  per- 
suaded that  they  have  reduced  all  literature  to  a 
practical  industrial  basis  by  furnishing  patent  outr 
sides  for  newspapers  and  patent  insides  for  aspir- 
ing minds.  In  these  days  one  becomes  intellectual 
by  prescription,  and  it  is  impossible  to  tell  how 
soon  will  be  advertised  the  device  of  inoculation 
against  illiteracy.  Common  sense  and  a  sense  of 
humor  save  one  from  many  dangers,  and  it  is  well 
to  let  both  have  full  play. 


METHODS  OF  STUDY  71 

I  have  spoken  earlier  in  these  talks  of  the  pleas- 
ure of  literary  study.  One  fundamental  principle 
in  the  selection  of  books  is  that  it  is  idle  to  read 
what  is  not  enjoyed.  For  special  information  one 
may  read  that  which  is  not  attractive  save  as  it 
serves  the  purpose  of  the  moment ;  but  in  all  read- 
ing which  is  of  permanent  value  for  itself,  enjoy- 
ment is  a  prime  essential.  Heading  which  is  not 
a  pleasure  is  a  barren  mistake.  The  first  duty  of 
the  student  toward  literature  and  toward  himself  is 
the  same, — enjoyment.  Either  take  pleasure  in  a 
work  of  art  or  let  it  alone. 

It  is  idle  to  force  the  mind  to  attend  to  works 
which  it  does  not  find  pleasurable,  and  yet  it  is 
necessary  to  read  books  which  are  approved  as  the 
masterpieces  of  literature.  Here  is  a  seeming  con- 
tradiction ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  it  is 
possible  to  arouse  the  mind  to  interest.  The  books 
which  are  really  worth  attention  will  surely  attract 
and  hold  if  they  are  once  properly  approached  and 
apprehended.  If  a  mind  is  indolent,  if  it  is  able 
to  enjoy  only  the  marshmallows  and  chocolate  car- 
amels of  literature,  it  is  not  to  be  fed  solely  on 
literary  sweetmeats.  Whatever  is  read  should  be 
enjoyed,  but  it  by  no  means  follows  that  whatever 
can  be  enjoyed  should  be  read.  It  is  possible  to 
cultivate  the  habit  of  enjoying  what  is  good,  what 
is  vital,  as  it  is  easy  to  sink  into  the  stupid  and 
slipshod  way  of  caring  for  nothing  which  calls  for 
mental  exertion.  It  requires  training  and  purpose. 
The  love  of  the  best  in  art  is  possessed  as  a  gift 
of  nature  by  only  a  few,  and  the  rest  of  us  must 


72  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

labor  for  it.  The  full  appreciation  of  the  work  of 
a  master-mind  comes  to  no  one  without  effort.  The 
reward  of  the  student  of  literature  is  great,  but  his 
labor  also  is  great.  Literature  is  not  like  an  empty- 
public  square,  which  even  a  blind  beggar  may  cross 
almost  unconsciously.  It  more  resembles  an  en- 
chanted castle  beset  with  spell-infested  forests  and 
ghoul-haunted  mountains  ;  a  place  into  which  only 
that  knight  may  enter  who  is  willing  to  fight  his 
way  through  dangers  and  difficulties  manifold ;  yet 
a  place,  too,  of  infinite  riches  and  joys  beyond  the 
imaginings  of  dull  souls. 

It  is  a  popular  fallacy  that  art  is  to  be  appreci- 
ated without  especial  education.  Common  feeling 
holds  that  the  reader,  like  the  poet,  is  born  and 
not  made.  It  is  generally  assumed  that  one  is  en- 
dowed by  nature  with  an  appreciation  of  art  as  one 
is  born  with  a  pug  nose.  The  only  element  of 
truth  in  this  is  the  fact  that  all  human  powers  are 
modified  by  the  personal  equation.  One  is  en- 
dowed at  birth  with  perceptions  fine  and  keen,  while 
another  lacks  them  ;  but  no  matter  what  one's  nat- 
ural powers,  there  must  be  cultivation.  This  culti- 
vation costs  care,  labor,  and  patience.  It  is,  it  is 
true,  labor  which  is  in  itself  delightful,  and  one 
might  easily  do  worse  than  to  follow  it  for  itself 
without  thought  of  other  end  ;  but  it  is  still  labor, 
and  labor  strenuous  and  long  enduring. 

It  is  first  necessary,  then,  to  make  an  endeavor 
to  become  interested  in  whatever  it  has  seemed 
worth  while  to  read.  The  student  should  try  ear- 
nestly to  discover   wherein  others  have  found  it 


J 


METHODS  OF  STUDY  73 

good.  Every  reader  is  at  liberty  to  like  or  to  dis- 
like even  a  masterpiece ;  but  he  is  not  in  a  position 
even  to  have  an  opinion  of  it  until  he  appreciates 
why  it  has  been  admired.  He  must  set  himself  to 
realize  not  what  is  bad  in  a  book,  but  what  is  good. 
The  common  theory  that  the  critical  faculties  are 
best  developed  by  training  the  mind  to  detect  short- 
comings is  as  vicious  as  it  is  false.  Any  carper 
can  find  the  faults  in  a  great  work ;  it  is  only  the 
enlightened  who  can  discover  all  its  merits.  It  will 
seldom  happen  that  a  sincere  effort  to  appreciate  a 
good  book  will  leave  the  reader  uninterested.  If  it 
does,  it  is  generally  safe  to  conclude  that  the  mind 
is  not  ready  for  this  particular  work.  There  must 
be  degrees  of  development ;  and  the  same  literature 
is  not  adapted  to  all  stages.  If  you  cannot  honestly 
enjoy  a  thing  you  are  from  one  cause  or  another  in 
no  condition  to  read  it.  Either  the  time  is  not  ripe 
or  it  has  no  message  for  your  especial  temperament. 
To  force  yourself  to  read  what  does  not  please  you 
is  like  forcing  yourseK  to  eat  that  for  which  you 
have  no  appetite.  There  may  be  some  nourishment 
in  one  case  as  in  the  other,  but  there  is  far  more 
likely  to  be  indigestion. 

An  essential  condition  of  profitable  reading  is 
that  it  shall  be  intelligent.  The  extent  to  which 
some  persons  can  go  on  reading  without  having  any 
clear  idea  of  what  they  read  is  stupefyingly  amaz- 
ing !  You  may  any  day  talk  in  society  with  per- 
sons who  have  gone  through  exhaustive  courses  of 
reading,  yet  who  from  them  have  no  more  got  real 
ideas  than  a  painted  bee  would  get  honey  from  a 


74  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

painted  flower.  Fortunately  ordinary  mortals  are 
not  so  bad  as  this  ;  but  is  there  one  of  us  who  is 
not  conscious  of  having  tobogganed  down  many  and 
many  a  page  without  pausing  thoroughly  to  seize 
and  master  a  single  thought  by  the  way  ? 

It  is  well  to  make  in  the  mind  a  sharp  distinction 
between  apprehending  and  comprehending.  The 
difference  is  that  between  sighting  and  bagging 
your  game.  To  run  hastily  along  through  a  book, 
catching  sight  of  the  meaning  of  the  author,  get- 
ting a  general  notion  of  what  he  would  convey,  — 
casually  apprehending  his  work,  —  is  one  thing ;  it 
is  quite  another  to  enter  fully  into  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  embodied,  to  make  them  yours  by 
thorough  appreciation,  —  in  a  word  to  comprehend. 
The  trouble  which  Gibbon  says  he  took  to  get  the 
most  out  of  what  he  read  must  strike  ordinary 
readers  with  amazement :  — 

After  glancing  my  eye  over  the  design  and  order  of 
a  new  book,  I  suspended  the  perusal  until  I  had  fin- 
ished the  task  of  self-examination ;  till  I  had  resolved 
in  a  solitary  walk  all  that  I  knew  or  believed  or  had 
thought  on  the  subject  of  the  whole  work  or  of  some 
particular  chapter ;  I  was  then  qualified  to  discern  how 
much  the  author  added  to  my  original  stock ;  and  if  I 
was  sometimes  satisfied  by  the  agreement,  I  was  some- 
times armed  by  the  opposition,  of  our  ideas. 

It  often  happens  that  the  average  person  does 
not  read  with  sufficient  deliberation  even  to  appre- 
hend what  is  plainly  said.  If  there  be  a  succession 
of  particulars,  for  instance,  it  is  only  the  excep- 
tional reader  who  takes  the  time  to  comprehend 


METHODS  OF  STUDY  75 

fully  each  in  turn.  Suppose  the  passage  to  be  the 
lines  in  the  "  Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of 
Chamouni :  "  — 

Your  stren^h,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam. 

The  ordinary  student  gets  a  general  and  probably 
a  vague  impression  of  cataracts,  dashing  down  from 
the  glacier-heaped  hills ;  and  that  is  the  whole  of 
it.  A  poet  does  not  put  in  a  succession  of  words 
like  this  merely  to  fill  out  his  line.  Coleridge  in 
writing  undoubtedly  realized  the  torrent  so  fully 
in  his  imagination  that  it  was  as  if  he  were  behold- 
ing it.  "  What  strength  !  "  was  his  first  thought. 
*'  What  speed,"  was  the  next.  "  What  fury ;  yet, 
too,  what  joy  !  "  Then  the  ideas  of  that  fury  and 
that  joy  made  it  seem  to  him  as  if  the  noise  of  the 
waters  was  the  voice  in  which  these  emotions  were 
embodied,  and  as  if  the  unceasing  thunder  were  a 
sentient  cry  ;  while  the  eternal  foam  was  the  visi- 
ble sign  of  the  mighty  passions  of  the  "  five  wild 
torrents,  fiercely  glad." 

In    the    dirge   in    "  Cymbeline,"    Shakespeare 
writes :  — 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great. 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak ; 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

As  you  read,  do  you  comprehend  the  exquisite 
propriety  of  the  succession  of  the  ideas  ?  Death 
has  removed  Fidele  from  the  possibility  of  misfor- 


76  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

tune ;  even  the  lords  of  the  world  can  trouble  no 
longer.  Nay,  more ;  it  has  done  away  with  all 
need  of  care  for  the  sordid  details  of  every-day 
life,  food  and  raiment.  All  that  earth  holds  is 
now  alike  indifferent  to  the  dead ;  the  pale,  wind- 
shaken  reed  is  neither  more  nor  less  important 
than  the  steadfast  and  enduring  oak.  And  to  this, 
the  thought  runs  on,  must  come  even  the  mighty, 
the  sceptred  ones  of  earth.  Not  learning,  which 
is  mightier  than  temporal  power,  can  save  from 
this ;  not  physic  itself,  of  which  the  mission  is  to 
fight  with  death,  can  in  the  end  escape  the  uni- 
versal doom. 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust.  ■I 

Hurried  over  as  a  catalogue,  to  take  one  example 
more,  how  dull  is  the  following  from  Marlowe's 
"Jew  of  Malta;  "  but  how  sumptuous  it  becomes 
when  the  reader  gloats  over  the  name  of  each 
jewel  as  would  do  the  Jew  who  is  speaking :  — 

The  wealthy  Moor,  that  in  the  eastern  rocks 

Without  control  can  pick  his  riches  up, 

And  in  his  house  heap  pearls  like  pebble-stones, 

Receive  them  free,  and  sell  them  by  the  weight  * 

Bags  of  fiery  opals,  sapphires,  amethysts, 

Jacinths,  hard  topaz,  grass-green  emeralds, 

Beauteous  rubies,  sparkling  diamonds, 

And  seld-seen  costly  stones  of  so  great  price 

As  one  of  them  indifferently  rated, 

And  of  a  carat  of  this  quantity. 

May  serve,  in  peril  of  calamity. 

To  ransom  great  kings  from  captivity. 

I  have  not  much  sympathy  with  the  trick  oi 
reading  into  an  author  all  sorts  of   far-fetched 


METHODS  OF  STUDY  11 

meanings  of  which  he  can  never  have  dreamed; 
but,  as  it  is  only  by  observing  these  niceties  of 
language  that  a  writer  is  able  to  convey  delicate 
shades  of  thought  and  feeling,  so  it  is  only  by  ap 
preciation  of  them  that  the  reader  is  able  to  grasp 
completely  the  intention  which  lies  wrapped  in  the 
verbal  form. 

To  read  intelligibly,  it  is  often  necessary  to  know 
something  of  the  conditions  under  which  a  thing 
was  written.  There  are  allusions  to  the  history  of 
the  time  or  to  contemporary  events  which  would 
be  meaningless  to  one  ignorant  of  the  world  in 
which  the  author  lived.  To  see  any  point  to  the 
fiery  and  misplaced  passage  in  "  Lycidas "  in 
which  Milton  denounces  the  hireling  priesthood 
and  the  ecclesiastic  evils  of  his  day,  one  must  un- 
derstand something  of  theological  politics.  We 
are  aided  in  the  comprehension  of  certain  passages 
in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  by  familiarity  with 
the  conditions  of  the  Elizabethan  stage  and  of  the 
court  intrigues.  In  so  far  it  is  sometimes  an  ad- 
vantage to  know  the  personal  history  of  a  writer, 
and  the  political  and  social  details  of  his  time. 
For  the  most  part  the  portions  which  require  elab- 
orate explanation  are  not  of  permanent  interest  or 
at  least  not  of  great  importance.  The  intelligent 
reader,  however,  will  not  wish  to  be  tripped  up  by 
passages  which  he  cannot  understand,  and  will 
therefore  be  likely  to  inform  himself  at  least  suffi- 
ciently to  clear  up  these. 

Any  reader,  moreover,  must  to  some  extent 
know  the  life   and  customs  of  the  people  among 


78  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

whom  a  work  is  produced.  To  one  who  failed 
to  appreciate  wherein  the  daily  existence  of  the 
ancient  Greeks  differed  from  that  of  moderns, 
Homer  would  hardly  be  intelligible.  It  would  be 
idle  to  read  Dante  imder  the  impression  that  the 
Italy  of  his  time  was  that  of  to-day ;  or  to  under- 
take Chaucer  without  knowing,  at  least  in  a  gen- 
eral way,  how  his  England  was  other  than  that  of 
our  own  time.  The  force  of  language  at  a  given 
epoch,  the  allusions  to  contemporary  events,  the 
habits  of  thought  and  custom  must  be  understood 
by  him  who  would  read  comprehendingiy. 

When  all  is  said  there  will  still  remain  much 
that  must  depend  upon  individual  experience.  If 
one  reads  in  Lowell :  — 

And  there  the  fount  rises ;  .  .  . 

No  dew-drop  is  stiller 

In  its  lupin-leaf  setting 
Than  this  water  moss-hounded ; 

one  cannot  have  a  clear  and  lively  idea  of  what  is 
meant  who  has  not  actually  seen  a  furry  lupin-leaf, 
held  up  like  a  green,  hairy  hand,  with  its  dew- 
drop,  round  as  a  pearl.  The  context,  of  course, 
gives  a  general  impression  of  what  the  poet  in- 
tended, but  unless  experience  has  given  the  reader 
this  bit  of  nature-lore,  the  color  and  vitality  of  the 
passage  are  greatly  lessened.  One  of  the  priceless 
advantages  to  be  gained  from  a  habit  of  careful 
reading  is  the  consciousness  of  the  significance  of 
small  things,  and  in  consequence  the  habit  of  ob- 
serving them  carefully.  When  we  have  read  the 
bit  just  quoted,  for  instance,  we  are  sure  to  perceive 


METHODS  OF  STUDY  79 

the  beauty  of  the  lupin-leaf  with  its  dew-pearl  if  it 
come  in  our  way.  The  attention  becomes  acute, 
and  that  which  would  otherwise  pass  unregarded 
becomes  a  source  of  pleasure.  The  most  sure  way 
to  enrich  life  is  to  learn  to  appreciate  trifles. 

There  is  a  word  of  warning  which  should  here 
be  spoken  to  the  over-conscientious  student.  The 
desire  of  doing  well  may  lead  to  overdoing.  The 
student,  in  his  anxiety  to  accomplish  his  full  duty 
by  separate  words,  often  lets  himself  become  ab- 
sorbed in  them.  He  drops  unconsciously  from  the 
study  of  literature  into  the  study  of  philology. 
There  have  been  hundreds  of  painfully  learned 
men  who  have  employed  the  whole  of  their  mis- 
guided lives  in  encumbering  noble  books  with 
philological  excrescences.  I  do  not  wish  to  speak 
disrespectfully  of  the  indefatigable  clan  character- 
ized by  Cowper  as 

Philologists,  who  chast; 
A  panting-  syllable  through  time  and  space ; 
Start  it  at  home,  and  hunt  it  in  the  dark, 
To  Gaul,  to  Greece  and  into  Noah's  ark. 

These  gentlemen  are  extremely  useful  in  their  way 
and  place ;  but  the  study  of  philology  is  not  the 
study  of  literature.  It  is  at  best  one  of  its  humble 
bond-slaves.  A  philologist  may  be  minutely  ac- 
quainted with  every  twig  in  the  family-tree  of  each 
obsolete  word  in  the  entire  range  of  Elizabethan 
literature,  and  yet  be  as  darkly  and  as  completely 
ignorant  of  that  glorious  world  of  poetry  as  the 
stokers  in  an  ocean  steamer  are  of  the  beauty  of 
the  sunset  seen  from  the  deck.     It  is  often  neces- 


80  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

sary  to  know  the  derivation  of  a  term,  and  perhaps 
something  of  its  history,  in  order  to  appreciate  its 
force  in  a  particular  usage  ;  but  to  go  through  a 
book  merely  to  pick  out  examples  for  philologic 
research  is  like  picking  to  pieces  a  mosaic  to  ex- 
amine the  separate  bits  of  glass. 

While,  moreover,  attention  to  the  force  and  value 
of  details  is  insisted  upon,  it  must  never  be  for- 
gotten that  the  whole  is  of  more  value  than  any  or 
all  of  its  parts.  The  reader  must  strive  to  receive 
the  effect  of  a  book  not  only  bit  by  bit,  and  page 
by  page,  and  chapter  by  chapter,  but  as  a  book. 
There  should  be  in  the  mind  a  complete  and  ample 
conception  of  it  as  a  unit.  It  is  not  enough  to 
appreciate  the  best  passages  individually.  The 
work  is  not  ours  until  it  exists  in  the  mind  as 
a  beautiful  whole,  as  single  and  unbroken  as  one 
of  those  Japanese  crystal  globes  which  look  like 
spheres  of  living  water.  He  who  knows  the  worth 
and  beauty  of  passages  is  like  an  explorer.  He  is 
neither  a  conqueror  nor  a  ruler  of  the  territory  he 
has  seen  until  it  is  his  in  its  entirety. 

I  believe  that  to  comparatively  few  readers  does 
it  occur  to  make  deliberate  and  conscious  effort  to 
realize  works  as  wholes.  The  impression  which  a 
book  leaves  in  the  thought  is  of  course  in  some 
sense  a  result  of  what  the  book  is  as  a  unit ;  but 
this  is  seldom  sharply  clear  and  vivid.  The  greatest 
works  naturally  give  the  most  complete  impression, 
and  the  power  of  producing  an  effect  as  a  whole 
is  one  of  the  tests  of  art.  The  writer  of  genius 
is  able  so  to  choose  what  is  significant,  and  so  to 


METHODS  OF  STUDY  81 

arrange  his  material  that  the  appreciative  reader 
cannot  fail  to  receive  some  one  grand  and  domi- 
nating impression.  It  is  hardly  possible,  for  in- 
stance, for  any  intelligent  person  to  fail  to  feel  the 
cumulative  passion  of  "  King  Lear."  The  calami- 
ties which  come  upon  the  old  man  connect  them- 
selves in  the  mind  of  the  reader  so  closely  with  one 
central  idea  that  it  is  rather  difficult  to  escape 
from  the  dominant  idea  than  difficult  to  find  it. 
In  "  Hamlet,"  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  by  no  means 
easy  to  gain  any  complete  and  adequate  grasp  of 
the  play  as  a  unit  without  careful  and  intimate 
study.  It  is,  moreover,  not  sure  that  one  has 
gained  a  full  conception  of  a  work  as  a  whole  be- 
cause one  has  an  impression  even  so  strong  as  that 
which  must  come  to  any  receptive  reader  of  "  King 
Lear  "  or  "  Othello."  To  be  profoundly  touched 
by  the  story  is  possible  without  so  fully  holding 
the  tragedy  comprehendingly  in  the  mind  that  its 
poignant  meaning  kindles  the  whole  imagination. 
We  have  not  assimilated  that  from  which  we  have 
received  merely  fragmentary  impressions.  The  ap- 
preciative reading  of  a  really  great  book  is  a  pro- 
found emotional  experience.  Individual  portions 
and  notable  passages  are  at  best  but  as  incidents  of 
which  the  real  significance  is  to  be  perceived  only 
in  the  light  of  the  whole. 

The  power  of  grasping  a  work  of  art  as  a  unit  is 
one  which  should  be  deliberately  cultivated.  It  is 
hardl}^  likely  to  come  unsought,  even  to  the  most 
imaginative.  It  must  rest,  in  the  first  place,  upon 
a  reading  of  books  as  a  whole.     Whatever  in  any 


82  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

serious  sense  is  worth  reading  once  is  worth  reread- 
ing indefinitely.  It  is  idle  to  hope  to  grasp  a  thing 
as  a  whole  until  one  has  become  familiar  with  its 
parts.  When  once  the  details  are  clear  in  the 
mind,  it  is  possible  to  read  with  a  distinct  and  de- 
liberate sense  of  the  share  that  each  passage  bears 
in  the  entire  purpose.  It  is  necessary,  and  I  may 
add  that  it  is  enchanting,  to  reread  until  the  de- 
tached points  gather  themselves  together  in  the 
inner  consciousness  as  molecules  in  a  solution 
gather  themselves  into  a  crystal.  The  delight  of 
being  able  to  realize  what  an  author  had  in  mind 
as  a  whole  is  like  that  of  the  traveler  who  at  last, 
after  long  days  of  baffling  mists  which  allowed  but 
broken  glimpses  here  and  there,  sees  before  him 
the  whole  of  some  noble  mountain,  stripped  clean  of 
clouds,  standing  sublime  between  earth  and  heaven. 
Whatever  effect  a  book  has  must  depend  largely 
upon  the  sympathy  between  the  reader  and  the 
author.  To  read  sympathetically  is  as  fundamen- 
tal a  condition  of  good  reading  as  is  to  read 
intelligently.  It  is  well  known  how  impossible  it 
is  to  talk  with  a  person  who  is  unresponsive,  who 
will  not  yield  his  own  mood,  and  who  does  not 
share  another's  point  of  view.  On  the  other  hand, 
we  have  all  tried  to  listen  to  speakers  with  whom  it 
was  not  in  our  power  to  find  ourselves  in  accord, 
and  the  result  was  merely  unprofitable  weariness. 
For  the  time  being  the  reader  must  give  himself  up 
to  the  mood  of  the  writer ;  he  must  follow  his  guid- 
ance, and  receive  not  only  his  words  but  his  sug- 
gestions with   fullest  acquiescence  of  perception, 


METHODS  OF  STUDY  83 

whatever  be  the  differences  of  judgment.  What 
Hawthorne  has  said  of  painting  is  equally  applica- 
ble to  literature :  — 

A  picture,  however  admirable  the  painter's  art,  and 
wonderful  his  power,  requires  of  the  spectator  a  sur- 
render of  himself,  in  due  proportion  with  the  miracle 
which  has  been  wrought.  Let  the  canvas  glow  as  it 
may,  you  must  look  with  the  eye  of  faith,  or  its  high- 
est excellence  escapes  you.  There  is  always  the  ne- 
cessity of  helping  out  the  painter's  art  with  your  own 
resources  of  sensibility  and  imagination.  Not  that 
these  qualities  shall  really  add  anything  to  what  the 
master  has  effected ;  but  they  must  be  put  so  entirely 
under  his  control  and  work  along  with  him  to  such  an  , 
extent  that,  in  a  different  mood,  when  you  are  cold 
and  critical  instead  of  sympathetic,  you  will  be  apt  to 
fancy  that  the  loftier  merits  of  the  picture  were  of 
your  own  dreaming,  not  of  his  creating.  Like  all  reve- 
lations of  the  better  life,  the  adequate  perception  of  a 
great  work  demands  a  gifted  simplicity  of  vision.  — 
Marble  Faun,  xxxvii. 

Often  it  is  difficult  to  find  any  meaning  in  what 
is  written  unless  the  reader  has  entered  into  the 
spirit  in  which  it  was  composed.  I  seriously  doubt, 
for  instance,  whether  the  ordinary  person,  coming 
upon  the  following  catch  of  satyrs,  by  Ben  Jonson, 
is  able  to  find  it  much  above  the  level  of  the  melo- 
dies of  Mother  Goose  :  — 

"  Buz,"  quoth  the  blue  fly, 

"  Hum,"  quoth  the  bee  ; 
Buz  and  hum  they  cry, 

And  so  do  we. 
In  his  ear,  in  his  nose, 

Thus,  do  you  see  ? 
He  ate  the  dormouse  ; 

Else  it  was  he. 


84  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

If  you  are  not  able  to  make  mucli  out  of  this,  lis- 
ten to  what  Leigh  Hunt  says  of  it :  — 

It  is  impossible  that  anything  could  better  express 
than  this,  either  the  wild  and  practical  joking  of  the 
satyrs,  or  the  action  of  the  thing  described,  or  the 
quaintness  and  fitness  of  the  images,  or  the  melody  and 
even  harmony,  the  intercourse,  of  the  musical  words, 
one  with  another.  None  but  a  boon  companion,  with 
a  very  musical  ear,  could  have  written  it.  —  A  Jar  of 
Honey. 

If  the  reader  has  the  key  to  the  mood  in  which 
this  catch  is  written,  if  he  has  given  himself  up  to 
J;he  sportive  spirit  in  which  "  rare  old  Ben  "  con- 
ceived it,  it  is  possible  to  find  in  it  the  merit  which 
Hunt  points  out ;  but  without  thus  giving  ourselves 
up  to  the  leadership  of  the  poet  it  is  hardly  possi- 
ble to  make  of  it  anything  at  all.  The  example  is 
of  course  somewhat  extreme,  but  the  principle  is 
universal. 

It  is  always  well  in  a  first  reading  to  give  one's 
self  up  to  the  sweep  of  the  work ;  to  go  forward 
without  bothering  over  slight  errors  or  small  de- 
tails. Notes  are  not  for  the  first  or  the  second 
perusal  so  much  as  for  the  third  and  so  on  to  the 
hundredth.    Dr.  Johnson  is  right  when  he  says :  — 

Notes  are  often  necessary,  but  they  are  necessary 
evils.  Let  him  that  is  yet  unacquainted  with  the  pow- 
ers of  Shakespeare,  and  who  desires  to  feel  the  highest 
pleasures  that  the  drama  can  give,  read  every  play  from 
the  first  scene  to  the  last,  with  utter  negligence  of  all 
his  commentators.  When  his  fancy  is  once  on  the 
wing,  let  it  not  stoop  to  correction  or  explanation. 

One  of  the  great  obstacles  to  the  enjoyment  of 


METHODS  OF  STUDY  85 

any  art  is  the  too  conscientious  desire  to  enjoy. 
We  are  constantly  hindered  by  the  conventional 
responsibility  to  experience  over  each  classic  the 
proper  emotion.  The  student  is  often  so  occu- 
pied in  painful  struggles  to  feel  that  which  he  has 
been  told  to  feel  that  he  remains  utterly  cold  and 
unmoved.  It  is  like  going  to  some  historic  local- 
ity of  noble  suggestion,  where  an  officious  guide 
moves  the  visitor  from  one  precious  spot  to  an- 
other, saying  in  effect :  "  Here  such  an  event  hap- 
pened. Now  thrill.  Sixpence  a  thrill,  please." 
For  myself,  being  of  a  somewhat  contumacious  char- 
acter, I  have  never  been  able  to  thrill  to  order, 
even  if  a  shilling  instead  of  sixpence  were  the 
price  of  the  luxury ;  and  in  the  same  way  I  am 
unable  to  follow  out  a  prescribed  set  of  emotions 
at  the  command  of  a  text-book  on  literature.  Per- 
haps my  temperament  has  made  me  unjustly  skep- 
tical, but  I  have  never  been  able  to  have  much 
faith  in  the  genuineness  of  feelings  carried  on  at 
the  ordering  of  an  emotional  programme.  The  stu- 
dent should  let  himself  go.  On  the  first  reading, 
at  least,  let  what  will  happen  so  you  are  swept 
along  in  full  enjoyment.  It  is  better  to  read  with 
delight  and  misunderstand,  than  to  plod  forward 
in  wise  stupidity,  understanding  aU  and  compre- 
hending nothing ;  gaining  the  letter  and  failing 
utterly  to  achieve  the  spirit.  The  letter  may  be  at- 
tended to  at  any  time  ;  make  sure  first  of  the  spirit. 
I  do  not  mean  that  one  is  to  read  carelessly ;  but 
I  do  mean  that  one  is  to  read  enthusiastically,  joy- 
ously, and,  if  it  be  possible,  even  passionately. 


86  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

The  best  test  of  the  completeness  with  which  one 
has  entered  into  the  heart  of  a  book  is  just  this 
keenness  of  enjoyment.  Fully  to  share  the  mood 
of  the  author  is  to  share  something  of  the  delight 
of  creation.  It  is  as  if  in  the  mind  of  the  reader 
this  work  of  beauty  and  of  immortal  significance 
was  springing  into  being.  This  enjoyment,  more- 
over, increases  with  familiarity.  If  you  find  that 
you  do  not  care  to  take  up  again  a  masterpiece  be- 
cause you  have  read  it  once,  you  may  pretty  safely 
conclude  that  you  have  never  truly  read  it  at  all. 
You  have  been  over  it,  it  may  be,  and  gratified 
some  superficial  curiosity  ;  but  you  have  never  got 
to  its  heart.  Does  one  claim  to  be  won  to  the  heart 
of  a  friend  and  yet  to  be  willing  never  to  see  that 
friend  more? 

One  may,  of  course,  outgrow  even  a  master- 
piece. There  are  authors  who  are  genuine  so  far 
as  they  go,  who  may  be  enjoyed  at  one  stage  of 
growth,  yet  who  as  the  student  advances  become 
insufficient  and  unattractive.  The  man  who  does 
not  outgrow  is  not  growing.  One  does  not  health- 
ily tire  of  a  real  book,  however,  until  he  has  be- 
come greater  than  that  book.  The  interest  which 
becomes  weary  of  a  masterpiece  is  more  than  half 
curiosity,  and  at  best  is  no  more  than  intellectual. 
It  is  not  imaginative.  Margaret  Fuller  confessed 
that  she  tired  of  everything  she  read,  even  of 
Shakespeare.  She  thereby  unconsciously  discov- 
ered the  quality  of  mind  which  prevented  her  from 
being  a  great  woman  instead  of  merely  a  brilliant 
one.     She  fed   her  intellect   upon  literature;  but 


METHODS  OF  STUDY  87 

she  failed  because  literature  does  not  reach  to  its 
highest  function  unless  its  appeal  to  the  intellect  is 
the  means  of  touching  and  arousing  the  imagina- 
tion ;  because  the  end  of  all  art  is  not  the  mind  but 
the  emotions. 

It  may  seem  that  enough  has  already  been  re- 
quired to  make  reading  the  most  serious  of  under- 
takings ;  yet  there  is  still  one  requirement  more 
which  is  of  the  utmost  importance.  He  is  imwor- 
thy  to  share  the  delights  of  great  work  who  is  not 
able  to  respect  it ;  he  has  no  right  to  meddle  with  the 
best  of  literature  who  is  not  prepared  to  approach 
it  with  some  reverence.  In  the  greatest  books  the 
master  minds  of  the  race  have  graciously  bidden 
their  fellows  into  their  high  company.  The  honor 
should  be  treated  according  to  its  worth.  Irrev- 
erence is  the  deformity  of  a  diseased  mind.  The 
man  who  cannot  revere  what  is  noble  is  innately 
degraded.  When  writers  of  genius  have  given  us 
their  best  thoughts,  their  deepest  imaginings,  their 
noblest  emotions,  it  is  for  us  to  receive  them  with 
bared  heads.  He  is  greatly  to  be  pitied  who,  in 
reading  high  imaginative  work,  has  never  been 
conscious  of  a  sense  of  being  in  a  fine  and  noble 
presence,  of  having  been  admitted  into  a  place 
which  should  not  be  profaned.  Only  that  soul  is 
great  which  can  appreciate  greatness.  Remember 
that  there  is  no  surer  measure  of  what  you  are 
than  the  extent  to  which  you  are  able  to  rise  to 
the  heights  of  supreme  books ;  the  extent  to  which 
you  are  able  to  comprehend,  to  delight  in,  and  to 
revere,  the  masterpieces  of  literature. 


VII 

THE  LANGUAGE   OF  LITERATURE 

"Whatever  intelligence  man  imparts  to  man,  at 
least  all  beyond  the  crudest  rudimentary  begin- 
nings, must  be  conveyed  by  conventions.  There 
must  have  been  an  agreement,  tacit  or  explicit,  that 
a  certain  sign  shall  stand  for  a  certain  idea ;  and 
when  that  idea  is  to  be  expressed,  this  sign  must 
be  used.  In  order  that  the  meaning  of  any  com- 
munication may  be  understood,  it  is  essential  that 
the  means  of  expression  be  appreciated  by  hearer 
as  well  as  by  speaker.  We  have  agreed  that  in 
English  a  given  sound  shall  represent  a  given  idea ; 
and  to  one  who  knows  this  tongue  the  specified 
sound,  either  spoken  or  suggested  by  letters,  calls 
that  idea  up.  To  one  unacquainted  with  English, 
the  sound  is  meaningless,  because  he  is  not  a  party 
to  the  agreement  which  has  fixed  for  it  a  conven- 
tional significance  ;  or  it  may  awake  in  his  thought 
an  idea  entirely  different,  because  he  belongs  to  a 
nation  where  tacit  agreement  has  fixed  upon  an- 
other meaning.  The  word  "  dot,"  for  instance,  has 
by  English-speaking  folk  been  appropriated  to  the 
notion  of  a  trifling  point  or  mark  ;  while  those 
who  speak  French,  writing  and  pronouncing  the 
word  in  the  same  way,  take  it  to  indicate  a  dowry. 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LITERATURE        89 

In  order  to  communicate  with  any  man,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  know  what  is  the  set  of  conventions  with 
which  he  is  accustomed  to  convey  and  to  receive 
ideas. 

The  principle  holds  also  in  art.  There  is  a  con- 
ventional language  in  sound  or  color  or  form  as 
there  is  in  words.  It  is  broader  as  a  rule,  because 
oftener  founded  upon  general  human  characteris- 
tics, because  more  directly  and  obviously  borrowed 
from  nature,  and  because  not  so  warped  and  dis- 
torted by  those  concessions  to  utility  which  have 
modified  the  common  tongues  of  men.  Indeed,  it 
might  at  first  thought  seem  that  the  language  of 
art  is  universal,  but  a  little  reflection  will  show  that 
this  is  not  the  case.  The  sculpture  of  the  Aztecs, 
for  instance,  is  in  an  art  language  utterly  different 
from  that  of  the  sculpture  of  the  Greeks.  If  you 
recall  the  elaborately  intricate  uncouthness  of  the 
gods  of  old  Yucatan,  you  will  easily  appreciate  that 
the  artists  who  shaped  these  did  not  employ  the 
same  artistic  conventions  as  did  the  sculptors  who 
breathed  life  into  the  Venus  of  Melos,  or  who 
embodied  divine  serenity  and  beauty  in  the  Elgin 
marbles.  To  the  Greeks  those  twisted  and  thick- 
lipped  Aztec  deities,  clutching  one  another  by 
their  crests  of  plumes,  or  grasping  rudely  at  one 
another's  arms,  would  have  conveyed  no  sentiment 
of  beauty  or  of  reverence  ;  while  it  is  equally  to 
be  supposed  that  the  Aztec  would  have  remained 
hardly  moved  before  the  wonders  of  Greek  sculp- 
ture. The  Hellenic  art  conventions,  it  is  true, 
were  more  directly  founded  upon  nature,  and  there* 


90  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

fore  more  readily  understood  ;  but  even  this  would 
not  have  overcome  the  fact  that  one  nation  had 
one  art  language  and  the  other  another.  Those  of 
you  who  were  at  the  Columbian  Exposition  will 
remember  how  the  music  in  the  Midway  Plaisance 
illustrated  this  same  point.  The  weird  strain  of 
one  or  another  savage  or  barbaric  folk  came  to  the 
ear  with  a  strangeness  which  showed  how  ignorant 
we  are  of  the  language  of  the  music  of  these  dwell- 
ers in  far  lands.  To  us  it  was  bizarre  or  moving, 
but  we  could  form  little  idea  how  it  struck  the 
hearers  to  whom  it  was  native  and  familiar.  It 
was  even  all  but  impossible  to  know  whether  a 
given  strain  was  felt  by  the  savage  performers  to 
be  grave  or  gay.  Of  all  the  varieties  of  sound 
which  there  surprised  the  ear,  that  evolved  by  the 
Chinese  appeared  most  harsh  and  unmelodious. 
The  almond-eyed  Celestial  seemed  to  delight  in  a 
concatenation  of  crash  and  caterwauling,  mingled 
in  one  infernal  cacophony  at  which  the  nerves 
tingled  and  the  hair  stood  on  end.  Yet  it  is  on 
record  that  when  in  the  early  days  of  European 
intercourse  with  China,  the  French  missionary 
Amiot  played  airs  by  Rossini  and  Boieldieu  to  a 
Chinese  mandarin  of  intelligence  and  of  cultiva- 
tion according  to  eastern  standards,  the  Oriental 
shook  his  head  disapprovingly.  He  politely  ex- 
pressed his  thanks  for  the  entertainment,  but  when 
pressed  to  give  an  opinion  of  the  music  he  was 
forced  to  reply :  "  It  is  sadly  devoid  of  meaning 
and  expression,  while  Chinese  music  penetrates  the 
soul."    After  we  have  smiled  at  the  absurdity,  from 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LITERATURE        91 

our  point  of  view,  of  the  penetration  of  the  soul  by 
Chinese  music,  we  reflect  that  after  all  our  music 
is  probably  as  absurd  to  them  as  theirs  to  us.  We 
perhaps  recall  the  fact  that  even  the  cultivated 
Japanese,  with  their  sensitive  feeling  for  art,  and 
their  readiness  to  adopt  occidental  customs,  com- 
plain of  the  effect  of  dividing  music  into  regular 
bars,  and  making  it,  as  they  say,  "  chip-chop,  chip- 
chop,  chip-chop."  The  fact  is  that  every  civiliza- 
tion makes  its  art  language  as  it  makes  its  word 
language  ;  and  he  who  would  understand  the  mes- 
sage must  understand  the  conventions  by  which  it 
is  expressed. 

We  are  apt  to  forget  this  fact  of  the  convention- 
ality of  all  language.  We  become  so  accustomed 
both  to  the  speech  of  ordinary  intercourse  and  to 
that  of  familiar  art,  that  we  inevitably  come  to  re- 
gard them  as  natural  and  almost  universal.  No  lan- 
guage, however,  is  natural,  unless  it  be  fair  to  apply 
that  word  to  the  most  primitive  signs  of  savages. 
It  is  an  arbitrary  thing,  and  as  such  it  must  be 
learned.  We  acquire  the  ordinary  tongue  of  our 
race  almost  unconsciously,  and  while  we  are  too 
young  to  reason  about  it.  We  gain  the  language 
of  art  later  and  more  deliberately,  although  of 
course  we  may  owe  much  to  our  early  surroundings 
in  this  as  in  every  other  respect.  The  point  to 
be  kept  in  mind  is  that  we  do  learn  it ;  that  it  is 
not  the  gift  of  nature.  This  is  of  course  true  of 
all  art ;  but  here  our  concern  is  only  with  the 
fact  that  literature  has  as  truly  its  own  peculiar 
language  as  music  or  painting  or  sculpture,  —  its 


92  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

language,  that  is,  distinct  from  the  language  of 
ordinary  daily  or  common  speech. 

The  conventions  which  serve  efficiently  to  convey 
ordinary  ideas  and  matter-of-fact  statements,  are 
not  sufficient  for  the  expression  of  emotions.  The 
man  who  has  to  tell  the  price  of  pigs  and  potatoes, 
the  amount  of  coal  consumed  in  a  locomotive  en- 
gine, or  the  effect  of  political  complications  upon 
the  stock-market,  is  able  to  serve  himself  suffi- 
ciently well  with  ordinary  language.  The  novelist 
who  has  to  tell  of  the  bewitchingly  willful  worldli- 
ness  of  Beatrix  Esmond,  of  the  fateful  and  tragic 
experiences  of  Donatello  and  Miriam,  the  splen- 
didly real  impossibilities  of  the  career  of  D'Artag- 
nan  and  his  three  friends,  the  passion  of  Richard 
Feverel  for  Lucy,  of  Kmita  for  Olenka,  of  Marius 
for  Cosette  ;  the  dramatist  who  endeavors  to  make 
his  readers  share  the  emotions  of  Lear  and  Cor- 
delia, of  Caliban  and  Desdemona,  of  Viola  and 
Juliet ;  the  poet  who  would  picture  the  emotions 
of  Pompilia,  of  Lancelot  and  Guinevere,  of  Por- 
phyrio  and  Madeline,  of  Prometheus  and  Asia,  — 
all  these  require  an  especial  language. 

The  conveying  from  mind  to  mind  of  emotion 
is  a  delicate  task.  It  is  not  difficult  to  make  a 
man  understand  the  price  of  oysters,  but  endeavor 
to  share  with  a  fellow-being  the  secrets  of  a  moment 
of  transcendent  feeling,  and  you  have  an  under- 
taking so  complex,  and  so  all  but  impossible,  that 
if  you  can  perfectly  succeed  in  it  you  may  justly 
call  yourself  the  first  writer  of  your  age.  This  is 
the  making  of  the  intangible  tangible ;  the  highest 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LITERATURE        93 

creative  act  of  the  imagination.  The  cleverness 
and  the  skill  of  man  have  been  exhausted  in  devis- 
ing means  to  impart  to  readers  the  thought  and 
feeling,  the  passion  and  emotion,  which  sway  the 
hearts  of  mankind.  It  is  not  necessary  here  to 
go  into  those  devices  which  belong  especially  to 
the  domain  of  rhetoric,  —  the  mechanics  of  style. 
They  are  designated  in  the  old-fashioned  text-books 
by  tongue-twisting  Greek  names  which  most  of  us 
have  learned,  and  which  all  of  us  have  forgotten. 
It  is  not  with  them  that  I  am  here  concerned. 
They  are  meant  to  affect  the  reader  unconsciously. 
It  is  with  those  matters  which  appeal  to  the  con- 
scious understanding  that  we  have  now  to  do  ;  the 
conventions  which  are  the  language  of  literature 
as  Latin  was  the  language  of  Caesar  or  Greek  the 
tongue  of  Pericles. 

I  have  spoken  already  of  the  necessity  of  under- 
standing what  is  said  in  literature;  this  is,  how- 
ever, by  no  means  the  whole  of  the  matter.  It  is 
of  even  greater  importance  to  be  clearly  aware  of 
what  is  implied.  We  test  the  imaginative  quality 
of  what  is  written  by  its  power  of  suggestion. 
The  writer  who  has  imagination  will  have  so  much 
to  say  that  he  is  forced  to  make  a  phrase  call  up  a 
whole  train  of  thought,  a  word  bring  vividly  to  the 
mind  of  the  reader  a  picture  or  a  history.  This 
is  what  critics  mean  when  they  speak  of  the  mar- 
velous condensation  of  Shakespeare ;  and  in  either 
prose  or  verse  the  criterion  of  imaginative  writing 
is  whether  it  is  suggestive.  Imagination  is  the 
realizing  faculty.     It  is  the  power  of  receiving  as 


94  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

true  the  ideal.  It  is  the  accepting  as  actual  that 
which  is  conjured  up  by  the  inner  vision;  the 
making  vital,  palpitant,  and  present  that  which  is 
known  to  be  materially  but  a  dream.  That  which 
is  written  when  the  poet  sees  the  unseen  palpably 
before  his  inner  eye  is  so  filled  with  the  vitality 
and  actuality  of  his  vision  that  it  fills  the  mind  of 
the  reader  as  a  tenth  wave  floods  and  overflows  a 
hollow  in  the  rocks  of  the  shore.  When  Keats 
says  of  the  song  of  the  nightingale  that  it  is 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm' d  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas  in  faery  lands  forlorn, 

all  the  romance  and  witchery  of  faery-lore  are  in 
this  single  phrase.  The  reader  feels  the  glow  of 
delight,  the  fascination  of  old  tales  which  have 
pleased  mankind  from  the  childhood  of  the  race. 
Into  two  lines  the  poet  has  condensed  the  fragrance 
of  a  thousand  flowers  of  folk-lore. 

In  the  best  literature  what  is  said  directly  is 
often  of  less  importance  than  what  is  meant  but 
not  said.  In  dealing  with  imaginative  writers,  it 
is  necessary  to  keep  always  in  mind  the  fact  that 
the  literal  meaning  is  but  a  part,  and  often  not 
the  greater  part.  The  implied,  the  indirect,  is 
apt  to  be  that  for  the  sake  of  which  the  work  is 
written. 

In  its  earlier  stages  all  language  is  largely  made 
up  of  comparisons.  The  fact  that  every  tongue 
is  full  of  fossil  similes  has  been  constantly  com- 
mented upon,  and  this  fact  serves  to  illustrate  how 
greatly  the  force  of  a  word  may  be  diminished  if 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LITERATURE        95 

its  original  meaning  is  lost  sight  of.  If,  in  ordi- 
nary conversation,  to  take  a  common  illustration, 
some  old-fashioned  body  now  speak  of  a  clergyman 
as  a  "pastor,"  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  word  con- 
notes little,  unless  it  be  a  suspicion  of  rustic  seedi- 
ness  in  apparel,  a  certain  provincial  narrowness, 
and  perhaps  a  conventional  piety.  When  the 
word  was  still  in  its  prime,  it  carried  with  it  the 
force  of  its  derivation  ;  it  spoke  eloquently  of  one 
who  ministered  spiritual  food  to  his  followers,  as  a 
shepherd  ministers  to  his  flock.  A  pastor  may  now 
be  as  good  as  a  pastor  was  then,  but  the  title  has 
ceased  to  do  him  justice.  The  freshness  and  force 
of  words  get  worn  off  in  time,  as  does  by  much  use 
the  sharpness  of  outline  of  a  coin.  We  need  con- 
stantly to  guard  against  this  tendency  of  language. 
We  speak  commonly  enough  in  casual  conversation 
of  "  a  sardonic  smile,"  but  the  idea  conveyed  is  no 
more  than  that  of  a  forced  and  heartless  grin.  As 
far  back  as  the  days  of  Homer,  some  imaginative 
man  compared  the  artificial  and  sinister  smile  of  a 
cynic  to  the  distortions  and  convulsions  produced 
by  a  poisonous  herb  in  Sardinia  ;  and  from  its  very 
persistence  we  may  fancy  how  forcible  and  striking 
was  the  comparison  in  its  freshness.  Of  course, 
modern  writers  do  not  necessarily  keep  in  mind 
the  derivation  of  every  word  and  phrase  which  they 
employ ;  but  they  do  at  least  use  terms  with  so 
much  care  for  propriety  and  exactness  that  it  is 
impossible  to  seize  the  whole  of  their  meaning, 
unless  we  appreciate  the  niceties  of  their  language. 
Ruskin  says  rightly  :  — 


96  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

You  must  get  yourself  into  the  habit  of  looking 
intensely  at  words,  and  assuring  yourself  of  their 
meaning,  syllable  by  syllable,  letter  by  letter.  .  .  . 
You  might  read  all  the  books  in  the  British  Museum 
(if  you  could  live  long  enough),  and  remain  an  utterly 
"  illiterate, "  uneducated  person ;  but  if  you  read  ten 
pages  of  a  good  book,  letter  by  letter, —  that  is  to  say, 
with  real  accuracy,  — you  are  forevermore  in  some 
measure  an  educated  person.  —  Of  King s^  Treasuries. 

Unless  our  attention  has  been  especially  called  to 
the  fact,  there  are  few  of  us  who  at  all  realize  how 
carelessly  it  is  possible  to  read.  We  begin  in  the 
nursery  to  let  words  pass  without  attaching  to 
them  any  idea  which  is  really  clear.  We  nourish 
our  infant  imaginations  upon  Mother  Goose,  and 
are  content  to  go  all  our  days  in  ignorance  even  of 
the  meaning  of  a  good  many  of  the  words  so  fondly 
familiar  in  pinafore  days.  We  are  all  acquainted 
with  the  true  and  thrilling  tale  how 

Thomas  T.  Tattamus  took  two  tees 
To  tie  two  tups  up  to  two  tall  trees ; 

but  how  many  of  us  know  what  either  a  "  tee  "  oi 
a  "  tup  "  is  ?  We  have  all  been  stirred  in  our  sus- 
ceptible  youth  by  the  rhyme  wherein  is  recountea 
the  exciting  adventure  of  the  four  and  twenty  tail- 
ors who  set  forth  to  slay  a  snail,  but  who  retreated 
in  precipitate  confusion  when 

She  put  out  her  horns  hke  a  little  Kyloe  cow  ; 

but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  proportion  of  us  is 
not  large  who  have  taken  the  trouble  to  ascertain 
what  is  a  Kyloe  cow.  Or  take  the  well-worn 
ditty :  — 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LITERATURE        97 

Cross-patch, 
Draw  the  latch, 
Sit  by  the  fire  and  spin. 

Have  you  ever  stopped  to  reflect  that  "  draw  the 
latch  "  means  to  pull  in  the  latch-string,  and  that 
in  the  days  of  homely  general  hospitality  to  which 
this  contrivance  belonged  the  image  presented  by 
the  verse  was  that  of  a  misanthropic  hag,  shutting 
herself  off  from  her  neighbors  and  sulking  viciously 
by  her  fire  behind  a  door  rudely  insulting  the  caller 
with  the  empty  hole  of  the  latch-string  ? 

Perhaps  this  seems  trifling ;  and  it  may  easily  be 
insisted  that  these  rhymes  become  familiar  to  us 
while  we  are  still  too  young  to  think  of  the  exact 
meaning  of  anything.  The  question  then  is  whether 
we  do  better  when  we  are  older.  We  are  accus- 
tomed, very  likely,  to  hear  in  common  speech  the 
phrase  "  pay  through  the  nose."  Do  you  know 
what  that  means,  or  that  it  goes  back  to  the  days 
of  the  Druids  ?  When  you  hear  the  phrase  "  where 
the  shoe  pinches"  do  you  recall  Plutarch's  story? 
Does  the  anecdote  of  St.  Ambrose  come  to  mind 
when  the  saying  is  "  At  Rome  do  as  the  Romans 
io  "  ?  It  happens  every  few  years  that  the  news- 
papers are  full  of  more  or  less  excited  talk  about  a 
"  gerrymander."  Does  the  word  bring  before  the 
inner  eye  that  uncouth  monster  wherewith  the 
caricaturist  of  his  day  vexed  the  soul  of  Governor 
Gerry  ?  I  have  tried  to  select  examples  which  are 
not  remote  from  the  talk  of  every  day.  It  seems 
to  me  that  these  illustrate  well  enough  how  apt  we 
are  to  accept   words  and  phrases  as  we  accept  a 


98  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

silver  dollar,  with  very  little  idea  of  the  intrinsic 
worth  of  what  we  are  getting.  This  may  be  made 
to  do  well  enough  in  practical  buying  and  selling, 
but  it  is  eminently  unsatisfactory  in  matters  intel- 
lectual or  aesthetic.  In  the  study  of  literature  ap- 
proximations are  apt  to  be  pretty  nearly  worthless. 

The  most  obvious  characteristic  in  literary  lan- 
guage is  that  of  allusion.  Constantly  does  the 
reader  of  imaginative  works  encounter  allusions  to 
the  Bible,  to  mythology,  to  history,  to  folk-lore,  and 
to  literature  itself.  To  comprehend  an  author  it 
is  needful  to  realize  fully  what  he  had  in  mind 
when  using  these.  They  are  the  symbols  of 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  are  not  to  be  ex- 
pressed in  ordinary  ways.  When  we  are  familiar 
with  the  matter  alluded  to  we  see  by  the  sudden 
and  vivid  light  which  is  cast  over  the  page  by  the 
comparison  or  the  suggestion  how  expressive  and 
comprehensive  this  form  of  language  may  be.  To 
the  reader  who  is  ignorant  the  allusion  is  of  course 
a  stumbling-block  and  a  rock  of  offense.  It  is  like 
a  sentence  in  an  unknown  tongue,  which  not  only 
conceals  its  meaning  but  gives  one  an  irritated 
sense  of  being  shut  out  of  the  author's  counsels. 

It  is  probable  that  in  English  literature  the 
allusions  to  the  Bible  are  more  numerous  than  any 
other.  We  shall  have  occasion  later  to  speak  of 
the  place  and  influence  of  the  King  James  version 
\ipon  the  literature  of  our  tongue,  and  here  we  have 
to  do  only  with  those  cases  in  which  a  scriptural 
reference  is  made  part  of  the  special  language  of 
an  author.     Again    and  again  it   happens  that  a 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LITERATURE         99 

writer  takes  advantage  of  the  associations  which 
cluster  about  a  phrase  or  an  incident  of  the  Bible, 
and  by  a  simple  touch  brings  up  in  the  mind  of  the 
understanding  reader  all  the  sentiments  connected 
with  the  original. 

With  many  of  the  more  common  of  these  phrases 
it  is  impossible  for  any  one  who  associates  with 
educated  persons  not  to  be  familiar.  They  have 
become  part  and  parcel  of  the  common  speech  of 
the  time.  We  speak  of  the  "  widow's  mite,"  of  a 
"  Judas'  kiss,"  of  "  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt,"  of  "  a 
still,  small  voice,"  of  a  "  Jehu,"  a  "  perfect  Babel," 
a  "  Nimrod,"  of  "  bread  upon  the  waters,"  and  of  a 
"Delilah."  The  phrases  have  to  a  considerable 
extent  acquired  their  own  meaning,  so  that  even 
one  who  is  not  familiar  with  the  Scriptures  is  not 
likely  to  have  difficulty  in  getting  from  them  a 
general  idea.  To  the  reader  who  is  acquainted 
with  the  force  and  origin  of  these  terms,  however, 
they  have  a  vigor  and  significance  which  for  others 
they  must  lack.  The  name  Jehu  brings  up  to  him 
not  merely  a  driver  on  a  New  England  stage-coach, 
but  the  figure  of  the  newly  crowned  usurper  rush- 
ing down  to  the  slaughter  of  King  Joram,  his  mas- 
ter, when  the  watchman  upon  the  wall  looked  out 
and  said :  "  The  driving  is  like  the  driving  of  Jehu, 
the  son  of  Nimshi ;  for  he  driveth  furiously."  The 
phrase  "  bread  upon  the  waters "  affords  a  good 
illustration  here.  Perhaps  most  readers  are  likely 
to  know  the  origin  of  the  quotation,  and  probably 
the  promise  which  concludes  it.  The  number  is 
smaller  who  realize  the  figure  to  be  that  of  the 


100  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

oriental  farmer  casting  abroad  the  seed-rice  over 
flooded  fields,  sowing  for  the  harvest  which  he 
shall  find  "  after  many  days."  The  phrase  "  a  still, 
small  voice  "  has  become  dulled  by  common  use, 
—  one  might  almost  say  profane,  since  the  quota- 
tion is  of  a  quality  which  should  render  it  too  dig- 
nified and  noble  for  careless  employment.  It  speaks 
to  the  reader  who  knows  its  origin  of  that  magnifi- 
cently impressive  scene  on  Horeb  when  Elijah  stood 
on  the  mount  before  the  Lord :  — 

And  behold,  the  Lord  passed  by,  and  a  great  and 
strong  wind  rent  the  mountain,  and  brake  in  pieces 
the  rocks  before  the  Lord ;  but  the  Lord  was  not  in 
the  wind:  and  after  the  wind  an  earthquake;  but  the 
Lord  was  not  in  the  earthquake :  and  after  the  earth- 
quake a  fire ;  but  the  Lord  was  not  in  the  fire :  and 
after  the  fire  a  still,  small  voice.  And  it  was  so, 
when  Elijah  heard  it,  that  he  wrapped  his  face  in  his 
mantle,  and  went  out  and  stood  in  the  entering  in  of 
the  cave.  And  behold,  there  came  a  voice  unto  him, 
and  said :  "  What  doest  thou  here,  Elijah  ?  " —  1  Kings 
xix.  11-13. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  upon  this  class  of  al- 
lusions. The  reader  who  expects  to  get  from  them 
their  full  force  must  know  the  original ;  and  while 
in  ordinary  speech  these  phrases  are  used  care- 
lessly and  with  little  regard  for  their  f idl  signifi- 
cance, they  are  in  the  work  of  imaginative  writers 
to  be  taken  for  all  that  they  can  and  should  convey. 

There  are  other  Biblical  allusions  which  are  less 
common  and  less  obvious.  When  in  the  "  Ode  on 
the  Nativity,"  Milton  speaks  of 

that  twice  batter'd  god  of  Palestine, 


THE  LANGUAGE  OP  LITERAWfi^:     IPI. 

the  verse  means  much  to  the  reader  who  recalls  the 
double  fall  of  the  fish-tailed  god  Dagon  before  the 
captured  ark  of  Israel,  but  to  others  it  is  likely 
to  mean  nothing  whatever.  To  be  ignorant  of  the 
tale  of  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abed-nego  is  to 
miss  completely  the  force  of  Hazlitt's  remark  that 
certain  artists  are  so  absorbed  in  their  own  pro- 
ductions that  "  they  walked  through  collections  of 
the  finest  works  like  the  Children  in  the  Fiery 
Furnace,  untouched,  unapproached."  Not  to  know 
the  declaration  of  St.  Paul  of  what  he  had  suffered 
for  his  faith  1  is  to  lose  the  point  of  Tennyson's 
verse 

Not  in  vain, 
Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I  fought  with  death. 

Prose  and  poetry  are  alike  full  of  scriptural  phrase- 
ology. In  short,  for  the  understanding  of  the  lan- 
guage of  allusion  in  English  literature  a  knowledge 
of  the  English  Bible  is  neither  more  nor  less  than 
essential. 

Another  class  of  allusions  frequent  in  literature 
is  the  mythological.  Here  also  we  find  phrases 
which  have  passed  so  completely  into  every-day 
currency  that  we  hear  and  use  them  almost  with- 
out reflecting  upon  their  origin.  "Scylla  and 
Charybdis,"  "dark  as  Erebus,"  "hydra-headed," 
and  "  Pandora's  box,"  are  familiar  examples.  We 
speak  of  "  a  herculean  task  "  without  in  the  least 
calling  to  mind  the  labors  of  Hercules,  and  employ 
the  phrase  "  the  thread  of  life  "  without  seeming 

^  If  after  the  manner  of  men  I  have  fought  with  beasts  at 
Ephesvis,  what  advantageth  it  me,  if  the  dead  rise  not  ?  —  1  Cor, 
XV.  32. 


i0    ;     TJIE  S^TIIDY  OF  LITERATURE 

to  see  the  three  grisly  Fates,  spinning  in  the  chill 
gray  dusk  of  their  cave.  We  have  gone  so  far 
as  to  condense  a  whole  legend  into  a  single  word, 
and  then  to  ignore  the  story.  We  say  "  lethean," 
"mercurial,"  "aurora,"  and  "bacchanalian,"  with- 
out recalling  their  real  significance.  It  is  obvious 
how  a  perception  of  the  original  meaning  of  these 
terms  must  impart  vividness  to  their  use  or  to  their 
understanding.  There  are  innumerable  instances, 
more  particular,  in  which  it  is  essential  to  know 
the  force  of  a  reference  to  old  myths,  lest  the  finer 
meaning  of  the  author  be  altogether  missed.  In 
"  The  Wind-Harp  "  Lowell  wrote ;  — 

I  treasure  in  secret  some  long,  fine  hair  9 

Of  tenderest  brown  .  .  . 
I  twisted  this  magic  in  gossamer  strings 

Over  a  wind-harp's  Delphian  hollow. 

In  the  phrase  "a  wind-harp's  Delphian  hollow" 
the  poet  has  suggested  all  the  mysterious  and  fate- 
ful utterances  of  the  abyss  from  which  the  Delphic 
priestess  sucked  up  prophecies,  and  he  has  pre- 
pared the  comprehending  reader  for  the  oracular 
murmur  which  swells  from  the  instrument  upon 
which  have  been  stretched  chords  twisted  from  the 
hair  of  the  dead  loved  one.  To  miss  this  suggestion 
is  to  lose  a  vital  part  of  the  poem.  When  Keats 
writes  of  "  vaUey-lilies  whiter  still  than  Leda's 
love,"  unless  there  come  instantly  to  the  mind  the 
image  of  the  snowy  swan  whose  form  Jove  took  to 
win  Leda,  the  phrase  means  nothing.  The  woeful 
cry  in  "Antony  and  Cleopatra," 

The  shirt  of  Nessus  is  upon  me ;  teach  me, 
Alcides,  thou  mine  ancestor,  thy  rage, 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LITERATURE      103 

is  full  of  keen-edged  horror  when  one  recalls  the 
garment  poisoned  with  his  own  blood  by  which  the 
centaur  avenged  himself  on  Hercules.  In  a  flash 
it  brings  up  the  picture  of  the  demigod  tearing  his 
flesh  in  more  than  mortal  agony,  and  calling  to 
Philoctetes  to  light  the  funeral  pyre  that  he  might 
be  consumed  alive.  It  is  not  needful  to  multiply 
examples  since  they  so  frequently  present  them- 
selves to  the  reader.  The  only  point  to  be  made 
is  that  here  we  have  another  well  defined  division 
of  literary  language. 

AUusion  to  history  is  another  characteristic  form 
of  the  language  of  literature.  References  to  classic 
story  are  perhaps  more  common  than  those  to  gen- 
eral or  modern,  but  both  are  plentiful.  Sometimes 
the  form  is  that  of  a  familiar  phrase,  as  "  a  Cad- 
mean  victory,"  "  a  Procrustean  bed,"  "  a  crusade," 
"  a  Waterloo,"  and  so  on.  Phrases  like  these  are 
easily  understood,  although  it  is  hardly  possible  to 
get  their  full  effect  without  a  knowledge  of  their 
origin.  What,  however,  would  this  passage  in 
Gray's  "  Elegy "  convey  to  one  unfamiliar  with 
English  history  ?  — 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  daontless  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood  ; 
Some  mnte,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

It  is  necessary  to  know  about  the  majestic  figure 
of  ivory  and  gold  which  the  Athenian  sculptor 
wrought,  or  one  misses  the  meaning  of  Emerson's 
couplet,  — 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought. 


104  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

Shakespeare  abounds  in  examples  of  this  use  of 
allusions  to  history  to  produce  a  clear  or  vivid  im- 
pression of  some  emotion  or  thought. 

I  will  make  a  Star-Chamber  matter  of  it. 

Merry  Wives,  i.  1. 
Though  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  i.  1. 
Even  such  a  man,  so  faint,  so  spiritless, 
So  dull,  so  dead  in  look,  so  woe-begone. 
Drew  Priam's  curtain  in  the  dead  of  night, 
And  would  have  told  him  haK  his  Troy  was  burnt. 

2  Henry  IF.,  i.  1. 

The  reader  must  know  something  of  the  Star-cham- 
ber, of  the  gravity  and  wisdom  of  Nestor,  of  the 
circumstances  of  the  tragic  destruction  of  Troy,  or 
these  passages  can  have  little  meaning  for  him. 

Sometimes  references  of  this  class  are  less  evi- 
dent, as  where  Byron  speaks  of 

The  starry  Galileo  with  his  woes  ; 

or  where  Poe  finely  compresses  the  whole  splendid 
story  of  antiquity  into  a  couple  of  lines  :  — 

To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

If  we  have  in  mind  the  varied  and  inspiring  story 
of  Greece  and  Rome,  these  lines  unroll  before  us 
like  a  matchless  panorama.  We  linger  over  them 
to  let  the  imagination  realize  the  full  richness  of 
their  suggestion.  The  heart  beats  more  quickly, 
and  we  find  ourselves  murmuring  over  and  over 
to  ourselves  with  a  kindling  sense  of  warmth  and 
glow :  — 

To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LITERATURE      105 

Poe  affords  an  excellent  example  of  this  device  of 
historical  allusion  carried  to  its  extreme.  In  "  The 
Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,"  there  is  a  stanza 
which  reads :  — 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 

Spirits  moving-  musically 
To  a  lute's  well-tun^d  law, 

Round  about  a  throne,  where  sitting 
(Porphyrogene  !) 

In  state  his  glory  well-befitting, 
The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

If  the  reader  chance  to  know  that  in  the  great 
palace  of  Const  an  tine  the  Great  at  Constantinople 
there  was  a  building  of  red  porphyry,  which  by 
special  decree  was  made  sacred  to  motherhood,  and 
that  here  the  princes  of  the  blood  were  born,  be- 
ing in  recognition  called  "  porphyrogene,"  there 
will  come  to  him  the  vision  which  Poe  desired  to 
evoke.  The  word  will  suggest  the  regal  splendors 
of  the  Byzantine  court  at  a  time  when  the  whole 
world  babbled  of  its  glories,  and  will  give  to  the 
verse  a  richness  of  atmosphere  which  could  hardly 
be  produced  by  any  piling  up  of  specific  details. 
The  reader  who  is  not  in  possession  of  this  infor- 
mation can  only  stumble  over  the  word  as  I  did 
in  my  youth,  with  an  aggrieved  feeling  of  being 
shut  out  from  the  inner  mysteries  of  the  poem.  I 
spoke  of  this  as  an  extreme  instance  of  the  use  of 
this  form  of  literary  language,  because  the  know- 
ledge needed  to  render  it  intelligible  is  more  un- 
usual and  special  than  that  generally  appealed  to 
by  writers.     It  is  one  of  those  bold  strokes  which 


106  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

are  tremendously  effective  when  they  succeed,  but 
which  are  likely  to  fail  with  the  ordinary  reader. 

After  historic  allusion  comes  that  to  folk-lore, 
which  used  to  be  a  good  deal  appealed  to  by  ima- 
ginative writers.  Some  knowledge  of  old  beliefs 
is  often  essential  to  the  comprehension  of  earlier 
authors.  Suckling,  for  instance,  says  very  charm- 
ingly :  — 

But  oh,  she  dances  such  a  way ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter  day 
Is  half  so  fine  a  sight ! 

The  reference,  of  course,  is  to  the  superstition  tbat 
the  sun  on  Easter  morning  danced  for  joy  at  the 
coming  of  the  day  when  the  Lord  arose.  To  get 
the  force  of  the  passage,  it  is  necessary  to  put  one's 
self  into  the  mood  of  those  who  believed  this 
pretty  legend.  In  the  same  way  it  is  only  to  one 
who  is  acquainted  with  the  myth  of  the  lubber 
fiend,  the  spirit  who  did  the  work  of  the  farm  at 
night  for  the  wage  of  a  bowl  of  cream  set  for  him 
beside  the  kitchen  fire,  that  there  is  meaning  in 
the  lines  in  "  L' Allegro :  "  — 

Tells  how  the  gTudging  goblin  sweat 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set. 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  mom, 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  thresh 'd  the  com 
That  ten  day- laborers  could  not  end  ; 
And,  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength ; 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

There  is  much  of  this  folk-lore  language  in  Shake- 
speare, and  in  our  own  time  Browning  has  perhaps 
more  of  it  than  any  other  prominent  author.     It 


4 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LITERATURE      107 

may  be  remarked  iu  passing,  that  Browning,  who 
loved  odd  books  and  read  a  good  many  strange  old 
works  which  are  not  within  general  reach,  is  more 
difficult  in  this  matter  of  allusion  than  any  other 
contemporary.  References  of  this  class  are  gener- 
ally a  trouble  to  the  ordinary  reader,  and  especially 
are  young  students  likely  to  be  unable  to  under- 
stand them  readily. 

The  last  class  of  allusions,  and  one  which  iu 
books  written  to-day  is  especially  common,  is  that 
which  calls  up  passages  or  characters  in  literature 
itself.  We  speak  of  a  "  quixotic  deed  ;  "  we  allude 
to  a  thing  as  to  be  taken  "  in  a  Pickwickian  sense  ;  " 
we  have  become  so  accustomed  to  hearing  a  married 
man  spoken  of  as  a  "  Benedick,"  that  we  often 
forget  the  brisk  and  gallant  bachelor  of  "  Much 
Ado  about  Nothing,"  and  how  he  was  transformed 
into  "  Benedick  the  married  man  "  almost  without 
his  own  consent.  When  an  author  who  weighs 
his  words  employs  allusions  of  this  sort,  it  is  need- 
ful to  know  the  originals  well  if  we  hope  to  get 
the  real  intent  of  what  is  written.  In  "II  Pen- 
seroso,"  Milton  says  :  — 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptered  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine. 

There  should  pass  before  the  mind  of  the  reader 
all  the  fateful  story  of  the  ill-starred  house  of  Lab- 
dacus  :  the  horrible  history  of  CEdipus,  involved 
in  the  meshes  of  destiny  ;  the  deadly  strife  of  his 
sons,  and  the  sublime  self-sacrifice  of  Antigone  r 


108  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

all  the  involved  and  passionate  tragedies  of  the  de- 
scendants of  Pelops :  Agamemnon,  the  slaughter 
of  Iphigenia,  the  vengeance  of  Clytemnestra,  the 
waiting  of  Electra,  the  matricide  of  Orestes  and 
the  descent  of  the  Furies  upon  him ;  and  after  this 
should  come  to  mind  the  oft-told  tale  of  Troy  in 
all  its  fullness.  Milton  was  not  one  to  use  words 
inadvertently  or  without  a  clear  sense  of  all  that 
they  implied.  He  desired  to  suggest  all  the  rich 
and  tragic  histories  which  I  have  hinted  at,  to  move 
the  reader,  and  to  show  how  stirring  and  how  preg- 
nant is  tragedy  when  dealing  with  high  themes. 
In  two  lines  he  evokes  all  that  is  most  potent  in 
Grecian  poetry.  Or  again,  when  Wordsworth 
speaks  of 

The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor, 

And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  lamb, 

it  is  not  enough  to  glance  at  a  foot-note  and  dis- 
cover that  the  allusion  is  to  Desdemona,  and  to 
the  first  canto  of  Spenser's  ''  Faerie  Queene."  The 
reader  is  expected  to  be  so  familiar  with  the  poems 
referred  to  that  the  spirit  of  one  and  then  of  the 
other  comes  up  to  him  in  all  its  beauty.  An  allu- 
sion of  this  sort  should  be  like  a  breath  of  perfume 
which  suddenly  calls  up  some  dear  and  thrilling 
memory. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  show  that  the  language 
of  literature  is  a  complicated  and  in  some  respects 
a  difficult  one.  Literature  in  its  highest  and  best 
sense  is  of  an  importance  and  of  a  value  so  great 
as  to  justify  the  assumption  that  no  difficulties  of 
language  are  too  great  if  needed  for  the  full  ex- 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LITERATURE      109 

pression  of  the  message  which  genius  bears  to  man- 
kind. In  other  words,  the  writer  who  can  give  to 
his  fellows  works  which  are  genuinely  imaginative 
is  justified  in  employing  any  conventions  which 
will  really  aid  in  expression.  It  is  the  part  of  his 
readers  to  acquaint  themselves  with  the  means 
which  he  finds  it  best  to  employ  ;  and  to  be  grate- 
ful for  the  gift  of  the  master,  whatever  the  trouble 
it  costs  to  appreciate  and  to  enter  into  its  spirit. 
If  we  are  wise,  if  we  have  a  proper  sense  of  val- 
ues, we  shall  find  it  worth  our  while  to  familiarize 
ourselves  with  scriptural  phrases,  with  mythology, 
history,  folk-lore,  or  whatever  will  aid  us  in  seizing 
the  innermost  significance  of  masterpieces. 

It  is  important,  moreover,  to  know  literary  lan- 
guage before  the  moment  comes  for  using  it.  In- 
formation grubbed  from  foot-notes  at  the  instant  of 
need  may  be  better  than  continued  ignorance,  but 
it  is  impossible  to  thrill  and  tingle  over  a  passage 
in  the  middle  of  which  allusions  must  be  looked 
up  in  the  comments  of  the  editor.  It  is  like  feel- 
ing one's  way  through  a  poem  in  a  foreign  tongue 
when  one  must  use  a  lexicon  for  every  second 
word.  The  feelings  cannot  carry  the  reader  away 
if  they  must  bear  not  only  the  intangible  imagi- 
nation but  a  solidly  material  dictionary.  As  has 
been  said  in  a  former  page,  notes  should  not  be 
allowed  to  interrupt  a  first  reading.  It  is  often  a 
wise  plan  to  study  them  beforehand,  so  as  to  have 
their  aid  at  once.  It  is  certainly  idle  to  expect  a 
vivid  first  impression  if  one  stops  continually  to 
look  up  obscure  points  ;  one  cannot  soar  to  the 
stars  with  foot-notes  as  a  flying-machine. 


110  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

One  danger  must  here  be  noted.  The  student 
may  so  fill  his  mind  with  concern  about  the  lan- 
guage that  he  cannot  give  himself  up  to  the  author. 
The  language  is  for  the  work,  and  not  the  work 
for  the  language.  The  teacher  who  does  not  in- 
struct the  student  in  the  meaning  and  value  of 
allusion  fails  of  his  mission ;  but  the  teacher  who 
makes  this  the  limit,  and  fails  to  impress  upon  the 
learner  the  fact  that  all  this  is  a  means  to  an  end, 
commits  a  crime.  I  had  rather  intrust  a  youth  to 
an  instructor  ill-informed  in  the  things  of  which 
we  have  been  speaking,  and  filled  with  a  genuine 
love  and  reverence  for  beauty  as  far  as  he  could  ap- 
prehend it,  than  to  a  preceptor  completely  equipped 
with  erudition,  and  filled  with  Philistine  satisfac- 
tion over  this  knowledge  for  its  own  sake.  No 
amount  of  learning  can  compensate  for  a  lack  of 
enthusiasm.  The  object  of  reading  literature  is 
not  only  to  understand  it,  but  to  experience  it ; 
not  only  to  apprehend  it  with  the  intellect,  but  to 
comprehend  it  with  the  emotions.  To  understand 
it  is  necessary  and  highly  important ;  but  this  is 
not  the  best  thing.  When  the  gods  send  us  gifts, 
let  us  not  be  content  with  examining  the  caskets. 


VIII 

THE  INTANGIBLE   LANGUAGE 

We  have  spoken  of  the  tangible  language  of 
literature ;  we  have  now  to  do  with  that  which  is 
intangible.  Open  and  direct  allusion  is  neither 
the  more  important  nor  the  more  common  form  of 
suggestion.  He  who  has  trained  himself  to  recog- 
nize  references  to  things  historical,  mythological, 
and  so  on,  has  not  necessarily  become  fully  familiar 
with  literary  language.  Phrase  by  phrase,  and. 
word  by  word,  literature  is  a  succession  of  symbols. 
The  aim  of  the  imaginative  writer  is  constantly  to 
excite  the  reader  to  an  act  of  creation.  He  only 
is  a  poet  who  can  arouse  in  the  mind  a  creative 
imagination.  Indeed,  one  is  tempted  to  indulge 
here  in  an  impossible  paradox,  and  to  say  that  h© 
only  is  a  poet  who  can  for  the  time  being  make 
his  reader  a  poet  also.  The  object  of  that  which  o 
expressed  is  to  arouse  the  intellect  and  the  emt 
tions  to  search  for  that  which  is  not  expressed 
The  language  of  allusion  is  directed  to  this  end, 
but  literature  has  also  its  means  far  more  subtile 
and  far  more  effective. 

Suggestion  is  still  the  essence  of  this,  but  it  is 
suggestion  conveyed  more  delicately  and  impalpa- 
bly.    Sometimes  it  is  so  elusive  as  almost  to  seem 


112  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

accidental  or  even  fanciful.  The  clioice  of  a  single 
word  gives  to  a  sentence  a  character  which  without 
it  would  be  entirely  wanting;  a  simple  epithet 
modifies  an  entire  passage.  In  Lincoln's  "  Gettys- 
burg Address,"  for  instance,  after  the  so  concise 
and  forceful  statement  of  all  that  has  brought  the 
assembly  together,  the  speaker  declares  "  that  we 
here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall  not  have 
died  in  vain."  The  adverb  is  the  last  of  which  an 
ordinary  mind  might  have  thought  in  this  connec- 
tion, and  yet  once  spoken,  it  is  the  one  inevitable 
and  supreme  word.  It  lifts  the  mind  at  once  into 
an  atmosphere  elevated  and  noble.  By  this  single 
word  Lincoln  seems  to  say :  "  With  the  dead  at 
our  feet,  and  the  future  for  which  they  died  before 
us,  lifted  by  the  consciousness  of  all  that  their 
death  meant,  of  all  that  hangs  upon  the  fidelity  with 
which  we  carry  forward  the  ideals  for  which  they 
laid  down  life  itself,  we  '  highly  resolve  that  their 
death  shall  not  have  been  in  vain.'  "  The  phrase 
is  one  of  the  most  superb  in  American  literature. 
It  is  in  itself  a  trumpet-blast  clear  and  strong. 
Or  take  Shakespeare's  epithet  when  he  speaks  of 
"death's  dateless  night."  To  the  appreciative 
reader  this  is  a  word  to  catch  the  breath,  and  to 
touch  one  with  the  horror  of  that  dull  darkness 
where  time  has  ceased ;  where  for  the  sleeper  there 
is  neither  end  nor  beginning,  no  point  distin-j 
guished  from  another ;  night  from  which  all  that 
makes  life  has  been  utterly  swept  away.  "  Death's 
dateless  night "  ! 

It  is  told  of  Keats  that  in  reading  Spenser  he 


THE  INTANGIBLE  LANGUAGE  113 

shouted  aloud  in  delight  over  the  phrase  "sea- 
shouldering  whales."  The  imagination  is  taken 
captive  by  the  vigor  and  vividness  of  the  image  oi 
the  great  monsters  shouldering  their  mighty  way 
through  opposing  waves  as  a  giant  might  push  his 
path  through  a  press  of  armed  men,  forging  on- 
ward by  sheer  force  and  bulk.  The  single  word 
says  more  than  pages  of  ordinary,  matter-of-fact 
description.  The  reader  who  cannot  appreciate 
why  Keats  cried  out  over  this  can  hardly  be  said 
to  have  begun  truly  to  understand  the  effect  of  the 
epithet  in  imaginative  writing. 

Hazlitt  cites  the  lines  of  Milton  :  — 

Him  followed  Rimmon,  whose  delightfid  seat 
Was  fair  Damascus,  on  the  fertile  banks 
Of  Abbana  and  Pharphar,  lucid  streams ; 

and  comments  :  "  The  word  lucid  here  gives  to  the 
idea  all  the  sparkling  effect  of  the  most  perfect 
landscape."  In  each  of  the  following  passages 
from  Shakespeare  the  single  italicized  word  is  in 
itself  sufficient  to  give  distinction  :  — 

Enjoy  the  honey-heavy  dew  of  slumber. 

Julius  Ccesar,  ii.  1. 

When  love  begins  to  sicken  and  decay 
It  useth  an  enforced  ceremony. 

lb.,  iv.  2. 
After  hie^sjitful  fever  he  sleeps  well. 

Macbeth,  iii.  2. 

It  would  lead  too  far  to  enter  upon  the  suggest- 
iveness  which  is  the  result  of  skillful  use  of  tech- 
nical means ;  but  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to 
call  attention  to  the  great  effect  which  may  result 
from  a  wise  repetition  of  a  single  word,  even  if 


114  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

that  word  be  in  itself  commonplace.  I  know  of 
nothing  else  in  all  literature  where  so  tremendous 
an  effect  is  produced  by  simple  means  as  by  the 
use  of  this  device  is  given  in  the  familiar  lines :  — 

To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time. 

Macbeth,  v.  5. 

The  suggestion  of  heart-sick  realization  of  the  fol- 
lowing of  one  day  of  anguish  after  another  seems 
to  sum  up  in  a  moment  all  the  woe  of  years  until 
it  is  almost  more  than  can  be  borne. 

In  many  passages  appreciation  is  all  but  im- 
possible unless  the  language  of  suggestion  is  com- 
prehended. To  a  dullard  there  is  little  or  nothing 
in  the  line  of  Chaucer :  — 

Up  roos  the  Sonne,  and  up  roos  Emelye. 

It  is  constantly  as  important  to  read  what  is  not 
written  as  what  is  set  down.  Lowell  remarks  of 
Chaucer :  "  Sometimes  he  describes  amply  by  the 
merest  hint,  as  where  the  Friar,  before  setting  him- 
self softly  down,  drives  away  the  cat.  We  know 
without  need  of  more  words  that  he  has  chosen  the 
snuggest  corner."  The  richest  passages  in  litera- 
ture are  precisely  those  which  mean  so  much  that 
to  the  careless  or  the  obtuse  reader  they  seem  to 
mean  nothing. 

The  great  principle  of  the  need  of  complete  com- 
prehension of  which  we  have  spoken  before  meets 
us  here  and  everywhere.  It  is  necessary  to  read 
with  a  mind  so  receptive  as  almost  to  be  creative : 
creative,  that  is,  in  the  sense  of  being  able  to  evoke 


i 


THE  INTANGIBLE  LANGUAGE  115 

before  tlie  imagination  of  the  reader  those  things 
which  have  been  present  to  the  inner  vision  of 
the  writer.  The  comprehension  of  literary  lan- 
guage is  above  all  else  the  power  of  translating 
suggestion  into  imaginative  reality. 
When  we  read,  for  instance  :  — 

Like  waiting  nymphs  the  trees  present  their  fruit ; 

the  line  means  nothing  to  us  unless  we  are  able 
with  the  eye  of  the  mind  to  see  the  sentient  trees 
holding  out  their  branches  like  living  arms,  tender- 
ing their  fruits.    When  Dekker  says  of  patience :  — 

'  T  is  the  perpetual  prisoner's  liberty, 
His  walks  and  orchards  ; 

we  do  not  hold  the  poet's  meaning  unless  there  has 
come  to  us  a  lively  sense  of  how  the  wretch  con- 
demned to  life-long  captivity  may  by  patience  find 
in  the  midst  of  his  durance  the  same  buoyant  joy 
which  swells  in  the  heart  of  one  who  goes  with 
the  free  step  of  a  master  along  his  own  walks  and 
through  his  richly  fruited  orchards. 

Almost  any  page  of  Shakespeare  might  be  given 
bodily  here  in  illustration.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
talk  of  Lorenzo  and  Jessica  as  in  the  moonlit  gar- 
den at  Belmont  they  await  the  return  of  Portia. 

Lor.     The  moon  shines  bright.     In  such  a  night  as  this, 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise,  —  in  such  a  night 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew, 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismayed  away. 


116  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  ■willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  waved  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Medea  gathered  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  -<Eson. 

The  question  is  how  this  is  read.  Do  we  go  over 
the  enchanting  scene  mechanically  and  at  speed, 
as  if  it  were  the  account  of  a  political  disturbance 
on  the  borders  of  Beloochistan  ?  Do  we  take  in 
the  ideas  with  crude  apprehension,  satisfied  that  we 
are  doing  our  duty  to  ourselves  and  to  literature 
because  the  book  which  we  are  thus  abusing  is 
Shakespeare  ?  That  is  one  way  not  to  read.  Again, 
we  may,  with  laborious  pedantry,  discover  that  all 
the  stories  alluded  to  in  this  passage  are  from  Chau- 
cer's "  Legends  of  Good  Women ; "  that  for  a 
single  particular  Shakespeare  has  apparently  gone 
to  Gower,  but  that  most  of  the  details  he  has  in- 
vented himseK.  We  may  look  up  the  accounts  of 
the  legendary  personages  mentioned,  compare  par- 
allel passages  in  which  they  are  named,  and  hunt 
for  the  earliest  reference  to  the  willow  as  a  sign 
of  woe.  There  is  nothing  necessarily  vicious  in 
all  this.  It  is  a  sort  of  busy  idleness  which  is 
somewhat  demoralizing  to  the  mind,  but  it  is  not 
criminal.  It  has,  it  is  true,  no  especial  relation  tc 
the  genuine  and  proper  enjoyment  of  the  poetry. 
That  is  a  different  affair !  The  reader  should  luxu- 
riate through  the  exquisite  verse,  letting  the  im- 
agination create  fully  every  image,  every  emotion. 
The  sense  should  be  steeped  in  the  beauty  of  that 


THE  INTANGIBLE  LANGUAGE  117 

garden,  softly  distinct  in  the  golden  splendors  of 
the  moon;  there  should  come  again  the  feeling 
which  has  stolen  over  us  on  some  June  night,  so 
lovely  that  it  seemed  impossible  but  that  dreams 
should  come  true,  and  in  sheer  delight  of  the  time 
we  have  involuntarily  sighed,  "  In  such  a  night  as 
this !  " —  as  if  all  that  is  bewitching  and  romantic 
might  happen  when  earth  and  heaven  were  attuned 
to  harmony  so  complete.  We  should  take  in  the 
full  mood  of  the  lines  :  — 

When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise. 

The  image  of  the  amorous  wind,  subduing  its  riot- 
ous glee  lest  it  be  overheard,  and  stealing  as  it 
were  on  tiptoe  to  kiss  the  trees,  warm  and  willing 
in  the  sweet-scented  dusk,  makes  in  the  mind  the 
very  atmosphere  of  the  sensuous,  luscious,  moonlit 
garden  at  Belmont.  "We  are  ready  to  give  our 
fancy  over  to  the  mood  of  the  lovers,  and  with  them 
to  call  up  the  potent  images  of  folk  immortal  in 
the  old  tales  :  — 

In  such  a  night 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

If  we  share  the  imaginings  of  the  poet,  we  shall 
seem  to  see  before  us  the  sheen  of  the  weather- 
stained  Grecian  tents,  silvered  by  the  moonlight 
there  below  the  waU  where  we  stand,  —  we  shall 
seem  to  stretch  unavailing  arms  toward  that  far 
corner  of  the  camp  where  Cressid  must  be  sleep- 
ing,—  we  shall  feel  a  sigh  swell  our  bosom,  and 
our  throat  contract. 


118  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

In  such  a  night 
Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew, 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismayed  away. 

The  realizing  reader  moves  with  timorous  eager* 
ness  to  meet  Pyramus,  feeling  under  foot  the  dew- 
wet  grass  and  on  the  cheek  the  soft  night  wind, 
and  suddenly,  with  that  awful  chill  of  fright  which 
is  like  an  actual  grasp  upon  the  heart,  to  see  the 
shadow  of  the  lion  silhouetted  on  the  turf.  He 
sees  with  the  double  vision  of  the  imagination  the 
shrinking,  terror-smitten  Thisbe,  arrested  by  the 
shadow  at  her  feet,  while  also  he  seems  to  look 
through  her  eyes  at  the  beast  which  has  called  up 
her  gaze  from  the  shade  to  the  reality.  He  trem- 
bles with  her  in  a  brief-long  instant,  and  then  flees 
in  dismay. 

Now  all  this  is  almost  sure  to  seem  to  you  to 
be  rather  closely  allied  to  that  pest  of  teachers  of 
composition  which  is  known  as  "  fine  writing."  I 
realize  that  my  comment  obscures  the  text  with 
what  is  likely  to  seem  a  mist  of  sentimentality. 
There  are  two  reasons  why  this  should  be  so, — 
two,  I  mean,  besides  the  obvious  necessity  of  fail- 
ure when  we  attempt  to  translate  Shakespeare  into 
our  own  language.  In  the  first  place,  the  feelings 
involved  belong  to  the  elevated,  poetic  mood,  and 
not  at  all  to  dry  lecturing.  In  the  second  place,  and 
what  is  of  more  importance,  these  emotions  can  be 
fairly  and  effectively  conveyed  only  by  suggestion. 
It  is  not  by  specifying  love,  passion,  hate,  fear, 
suspense,  and  the  like,  that  an  author  brings  them 


THE  INTANGIBLE  LANGUAGE  119 

keenly  to  the  mind ;  but  by  arousing  the  reader's 
imagination  to  create  them.  It  follows  that  in  in- 
sisting upon  the  necessity  of  understanding  what  is 
connoted  as  well  as  what  is  denoted  in  what  one 
reads,  I  am  but  calling  attention  to  the  fact  that 
this  is  the  only  way  in  which  the  most  significant 
message  of  a  writer  may  be  understood  at  all.  The 
best  of  literature  must  be  received  by  suggestion  or 
missed  altogether. 

Often  ideas  which  are  essential  to  the  apprecia- 
tion of  even  the  simplest  import  of  a  work  are  con- 
veyed purely  by  inference.  Doubtless  most  of  you 
are  familiar  with  Rossetti's  poem,  "  Sister  Helen." 
A  slighted  maiden  is  by  witchcraft  doing  to  death 
her  faithless  lover,  melting  his  waxen  image  before 
the  fire,  while  he  in  agony  afar  wastes  away  under 
the  eyes  of  his  newly  wedded  bride  as  the  wax 
wastes  by  the  flame.  Her  brother  from  the  gal- 
lery outside  her  tower  window  calls  to  her  as  one 
after  another  the  relatives  of  the  dying  man  come 
to  implore  her  mercy.  The  first  is  announced  in 
these  words :  — 

Oh,  it 's  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  fast,  .  .  . 
For  I  know  the  white  maue  on  the  blast. 

There  follows  the  plea  of  the  rider,  and  again  the 
brother  speaks :  — 

Here  's  Keith  of  Westholm  riding-  fast,  .  .   . 
For  I  know  the  white  phxme  on  the  blast. 

When  the  second  suppliant  has  vainly  prayed  pity, 
and  the  third  appears,  the  boy  calls  to  his  sister :  — 

Oh,  it 's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides  fast,  •  .  < 
For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast. 


120  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

We  see  first  a  rider  who  is  not  of  importance  enough 
to  overpower  in  the  mind  of  the  boy  the  effect  of 
his  horse,  and  we  feel  instinctively  that  some 
younger  member  of  the  house  has  been  sent  on 
this  errand.  Then  comes  the  second  brother,  and 
the  boy  is  impressed  by  the  knightly  plume,  by  the 
trappings  of  the  rider  rather  than  by  his  person- 
ality. An  older  and  more  important  member  of 
the  family  has  been  dispatched  as  the  need  has 
grown  greater.  It  is  not,  however,  until  the  old 
man  comes,  with  white  locks  floating  on  the  wind, 
that  the  person  of  the  messenger  seizes  the  atten- 
tion ;  it  is  evident  that  the  head  of  the  house  of 
Keith  has  come,  and  that  a  desperate  climax  is  at 
hand. 

When  one  considers  the  care  with  which  writers 
arrange  details  like  this,  of  how  much  depends 
upon  the  reader's  comprehending  them,  one  knows 
not  whether  to  be  the  more  angry  or  the  more  pit- 
iful in  thinking  of  the  careless  fashion  in  which 
literature  is  so  commonly  skimmed  over. 

It  is  essential,  then,  to  read  carefully  and  intel- 
ligently; and  it  is  no  less  essential  to  read  im- 
aginatively and  sympathetically.  Of  course  the 
intelligent  comprehension  of  which  I  am  speaking 
cannot  be  reached  without  the  use  of  the  imagi- 
nation. No  author  can  fulfill  for  you  the  office 
of  your  own  mind.  In  order  to  accompany  an 
author  who  soars  it  is  necessary  to  have  wings  of 
one's  own.  Pegasus  is  a  sure  guide  through  the 
trackless  regions  of  the  sky,  but  he  drags  none  up 
after  him.     The  majority  of  readers  are  apt  un- 


THE  INTANGIBLE  LANGUAGE  121 

consciously  to  assume  that  a  work  of  imaginative 
literature  is  a  sort  of  captive  balloon  in  which  any 
excursionist  who  is  in  search  of  a  novel  sensation 
may  be  wafted  heavenward  for  the  payment  of  a 
small  fee.  They  sit  down  to  some  famous  book 
prepared  to  be  raised  far  above  earth,  and  they  are 
not  only  astonished  but  inclined  to  be  indignant 
that  nothing  happens.  They  feel  that  they  have 
been  defrauded,  and  that  like  the  prophet  Jonah 
they  do  well  to  be  angry.  The  reputation  of  the 
masterpiece  they  regard  as  a  sort  of  advertise- 
ment from  which  the  book  cannot  fall  away  with- 
out manifest  dishonesty  on  the  part  of  somebody. 
They  are  there ;  they  are  ready  to  be  thrilled  ;  the 
reputation  of  the  work  guarantees  the  thrilling; 
and  yet  they  are  unmoved.  Straightway  they  pro- 
nounce the  reputation  of  that  book  a  snare  and  a 
delusion.  They  do  not  in  the  least  appreciate  the 
fact  that  they  have  not  even  learned  the  language 
in  which  the  author  has  written.  Literature  shows 
us  what  we  may  create  for  ourselves ;  it  suggests 
and  inspires ;  it  awakens  us  to  the  possibilities  of 
life;  but  the  actual  act  of  creation  must  every 
mind  do  for  itself.  The  hearing  ear  and  the  re- 
sponsive imagination  are  as  necessary  as  the  in- 
spired voice  to  utter  high  things.  You  are  able 
appreciatively  to  read  imaginative  works  when  you 
are  able,  as  William  Blake  has  said :  — 

To  see  the  world  in  a  grain  of  sand, 

And  a  heaven  in  a  wild  flower  ; 
Hold  infinity  in  the  palm  of  your  hand, 

And  eternity  in  an  hour. 


122  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

The  language  of  literature  is  in  reality  a  tongue 
as  foreign  to  every-day  speech  as  is  the  tongue  of 
the  folk  of  another  land.  It  is  necessary  to  learn 
it  as  one  learns  a  foreign  idiom  ;  and  to  appreciate 
the  fact  that  even  when  it  is  acquired  what  we  read 
does  not  accomplish  for  us  the  possibilities  of  emo- 
tion, but  only  points  out  the  way  in  which  we  may 
rise  to  them  for  ourselves. 


IX 

THE  CLASSICS 

The  real  nature  of  a  classic  is  perhaps  to  tlie 
general  mind  even  more  vague  than  that  of  litera- 
ture. As  long  as  the  term  is  confined  to  Greek 
and  Roman  authors,  it  is  of  course  simple  enough ; 
but  the  moment  the  word  is  given  its  general  and 
legitimate  application  the  ordinary  reader  is  apt  to 
become  somewhat  uncertain  of  its  precise  mean- 
ing. It  is  not  strange,  human  nature  being  what 
it  is,  that  the  natural  instinct  of  most  men  is  to 
take  refuge  in  the  idea  that  a  classic  is  of  so  little 
moment  that  it  really  does  not  matter  much  what 
it  is. 

While  I  was  writing  these  talks,  a  friend  said  to 
me :  "  I  know  what  I  would  do  if  I  were  to  speak 
about  literature.  I  would  tell  my  audience  squarely 
that  all  this  talk  about  the  superiority  of  the  classics 
is  either  superstition  or  mere  affectation.  I  would 
give  them  the  straight  tip  that  nobody  nowadays 
really  enjoys  Homer  and  Chaucer  and  Spenser 
and  all  those  old  duffers,  and  that  nobody  need  ex- 
pect to."  I  disregarded  the  slang,  and  endeavored 
to  treat  this  remark  with  absolute  sincerity.  It 
brought  up  vividly  the  question  which  has  oc- 
curred to  most  of  us  how  far  the  often  expressed 


124  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

admiration  of  the  classics  is  genuine.  It  is  impos- 
sible not  to  see  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  talk 
which  is  purely  conventional.  We  know  well 
enough  that  the  ordinary  reader  does  not  take 
Chaucer  or  Spenser  from  the  shelf  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end.  It  is  idle  to  deny  that  the  latest 
novel  has  a  thousand  times  better  chance  of  being 
read  than  any  classic,  and  since  there  is  always  a 
latest  novel  the  classics  are  under  a  perpetual  dis- 
advantage. How  far,  then,  was  my  friend  right? 
We  live  in  an  age  when  we  dare  to  question  any- 
thing ;  when  doubt  examines  everything.  We  claim 
to  test  things  on  their  merits ;  and  if  the  reverence 
with  which  old  authors  have  been  regarded  is  a 
mere  tradition  and  a  fetish,  it  is  as  well  that  its 
falsity  be  known. 

Is  it  true  that  the  majority  of  readers  find  the 
works  of  the  great  writers  of  the  past  dull  and 
unattractive  ?  I  must  confess  that  it  is  true.  It 
is  one  of  those  facts  of  which  we  seldom  speak  in 
polite  society,  as  we  seldom  speak  of  the  fact  that 
so  large  a  portion  of  mankind  yield  to  the  temp- 
tations of  life.  It  is  more  of  an  affront,  indeed, 
to  intimate  that  a  man  is  unfamiliar  with  Shake- 
speare than  to  accuse  him  of  having  foully  done  to 
death  his  grandmother.  Whatever  be  the  facts, 
we  have  tacitly  agreed  to  assume  that  every  intel- 
ligent man  is  of  course  acquainted  with  certain 
books.  We  all  recognize  that  we  live  in  a  society 
in  which  familiarity  with  these  works  is  put  forward 
as  an  essential  condition  of  intellectual,  and  indeed 
almost  of   social  and  moral,  respectability.     One 


THE  CLASSICS  125 

would  hesitate  to  ask  to  dinner  a  man  who  con- 
fessed to  a  complete  ignorance  of  '*  The  Canter- 
bury Tales ;  "  and  if  one's  sister  married  a  person 
so  hardened  as  to  own  to  being  unacquainted  with 
"  Hamlet,"  one  would  take  a  good  deal  of  pains  to 
prevent  the  disgraceful  fact  from  becoming  public. 
We  have  come  to  accept  a  knowledge  of  the  classics 
as  a  measure  of  cultivation ;  and  yet  at  the  same 
time,  by  an  absurd  contradiction,  we  allow  that 
knowledge  to  be  assumed,  and  we  accept  for  the 
real  the  sham  while  we  are  assured  of  its  falsity. 
In  other  words,  we  tacitly  agree  that  cultivation 
shall  be  tested  by  a  certain  criterion,  and  then 
allow  men  unrebuked  to  offer  in  its  stead  the  flim- 
siest pretext.  We  piously  pretend  that  we  all  read 
the  masterpieces  of  literature  while  as  a  rule  we 
do  not ;  and  the  plain  fact  is  that  few  of  us  dare 
rebuke  our  neighbors  lest  we  bring  to  light  our  own 
shortcomings. 

Such  a  state  of  things  is  sufficiently  curious  to 
be  worth  examination ;  and  there  would  also  seem 
to  be  some  advisability  of  amendment.  If  it  is  not 
to  be  supposed  that  we  can  alter  public  sentiment, 
we  may  at  least  free  ourselves  from  the  thralldom 
of  superstition.  If  this  admiration  of  the  classics 
which  men  profess  with  their  lips,  yet  so  commonly 
deny  by  their  acts,  is  a  relic  of  old-time  prejudice, 
if  it  be  but  a  mouldy  inheritance  from  days  when 
learning  was  invested  with  a  sort  of  supernatural 
dignity,  it  is  surely  time  that  it  was  cast  aside. 
We  should  at  least  know  whether  in  this  matter  it 
is  rational  to  hold  by  common  theory  or  by  common 
practice. 


126  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

In  the  first  place  it  is  necessary  to  supply  that 
definition  of  a  classic  which  is  so  generally  want- 
ing. In  their  heart  of  hearts,  concealed  like  a 
secret  crime,  many  persons  hide  an  obstinate  con- 
viction that  a  classic  is  any  book  which  everybody 
should  have  read,  yet  which  nobody  wishes  to  read. 
The  idea  is  not  unallied  to  the  notion  that  good- 
ness is  whatever  we  do  not  wish  to  do ;  and  one  is 
as  sensible  as  the  other.  It  has  already  been  said 
that  the  object  of  the  study  of  literature  is  to  enjoy 
and  to  experience  literature ;  to  live  in  it  and  to 
thrill  with  its  emotions.  It  follows  that  the  popu- 
lar idea  just  mentioned  is  neither  more  nor  less 
sensible  than  the  theory  that  it  is  better  to  have 
lived  than  to  live,  to  have  loved  than  to  love. 
Whatever  else  may  be  said,  it  is  manifest  that  this 
popular  definition  of  a  classic  as  a  book  not  to 
read  but  to  have  read  is  an  absurd  contradiction  of 
terms. 

Equally  common  is  the  error  that  a  classic  is  a 
book  which  is  merely  old.  One  constantly  hears 
the  word  applied  to  any  work,  copies  of  which  have 
come  down  to  us  from  a  former  generation,  with 
a  tendency  to  assume  that  merit  is  in  direct  pro- 
portion to  antiquity.  To  disabuse  the  mind  from 
this  error  nothing  is  needed  but  to  examine  intelli- 
gently the  catalogue  of  any  great  library.  Therein 
are  to  be  found  lists  of  numerous  authors  whose 
productions  have  accidentally  escaped  submergence 
in  the  stream  of  time,  and  are  now  preserved  as 
simple  and  innocuous  diet  for  book-worms  insec- 
tivorous or  human.     These  writings  are  not  clas- 


THE  CLASSICS  127 

sics,  although  there  is  a  tribe  of  busy  idlers  who 
devote  their  best  energies  to  keeping  before  the 
public  works  which  have  not  sufficient  vitality  to 
live  of  themselves,  —  editors  who  perform,  in  a 
word,  the  functions  of  hospital  nurses  to  literary 
senilities  which  should  be  left  in  decent  quiet  to 
die  from  simple  inanition.  Mere  age  no  more 
makes  a  classic  of  a  poor  book  than  it  makes  a 
saint  of  a  sinner. 

A  classic  is  more  than  a  book  which  has  been 
preserved.  It  must  have  been  approved.  It  is  a 
work  which  has  received  the  suffrages  of  genera- 
tions. Out  of  the  innumerable  books,  of  the  mak- 
ing of  which  there  was  no  end  even  so  long  ago 
as  the  days  of  Solomon,  some  few  have  been  by 
the  general  voice  of  the  world  chosen  as  worthy  of 
preservation.  There  are  certain  writings  which, 
amid  all  the  multitudinous  distractions  of  practical 
life,  amid  all  the  changes  of  custom,  belief,  and 
taste,  have  continuously  pleased  and  moved  man- 
kind, —  and  to  these  we  give  the  name  Classics. 

A  book  has  two  sorts  of  interest ;  that  which 
is  temporary,  and  that  which  is  permanent.  The 
former  depends  upon  its  relation  to  the  time  in 
which  it  is  produced.  In  these  days  of  magazines 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  articles  which 
are  what  is  called  timely.  This  means  that  they 
fall  in  with  some  popular  interest  of  the  moment. 
When  a  war  breaks  out  in  the  Soudan,  an  account 
of  recent  explorations  or  travels  in  that  region 
is  timely,  because  it  appeals  to  readers  who  just 
then  are  eager  to  increase  their  information  con' 


128  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

cerning  the  scene  of  the  disturbance.  When  there 
is  general  discussion  of  any  ethical  or  emotional 
topic,  the  novel  or  the  poem  making  that  topic  its 
theme  finds  instant  response.  Often  a  book  of  no 
literary  tnerit  whatever  speeds  forward  to  notoriety 
because  it  is  attached,  like  a  barnacle  on  the  side 
of  a  ship,  to  some  leading  issue  of  the  day.  At  a 
time  when  there  is  wide  discussion  of  social  reforms, 
for  instance,  a  man  might  write  a  rubbishy  ro- 
mance picturing  an  unhuman  and  impossible  social- 
ism, and  find  the  fiction  spring  into  notoriety  from 
its  connection  with  the  theme  of  popular  talk  and 
thought.  Books  which  are  really  notable,  too,  may 
owe  their  immediate  celebrity  to  connection  with 
some  vital  topic  of  the  day.  Their  hold  upon  later 
attention  will  depend  upon  their  lasting  merit. 

The  permanent  interest  and  value  of  a  book  are 
precisely  those  qualities  which  have  been  specified 
as  making  it  literature.  As  time  goes  on  all  tem- 
porary importance  fails.  Nothing  becomes  more 
quickly  obsolete  than  the  thing  which  is  merely 
timely.  It  may  retain  interest  as  a  curious  his- 
toric document.  It  will  always  have  some  value 
as  showing  what  was  read  by  large  numbers  at  a 
given  period;  but  nobody  will  cherish  the  merely 
timely  book  as  literature,  although  in  its  prime 
it  may  have  had  the  widest  vogue,  and  may  have 
conferred  upon  its  author  a  delicious  immortality 
lasting  sometimes  half  his  lifetime.  Permanent  in- 
terest gives  a  book  permanent  value,  and  this  de- 
pends upon  appeal  to  the  permanent  characteristics 
and  emotions  of  humanity. 


THE  CLASSICS  129 

While  the  temporary  excitement  over  a  book 
continues,  no  matter  how  evanescent  the  qualities 
upon  which  this  excitement  depends,  the  reader 
finds  it  difficult  to  realize  that  the  work  is  not  gen- 
uine and  vital.  It  is  not  easy  to  distinguish  the 
permanent  from  the  momentary  interest.  With 
the  passage  of  time  extraneous  attractions  fade, 
and  the  work  is  left  to  depend  upon  its  essential 
value.  The  classics  are  writings  which,  when  all 
factitious  interests  that  might  have  been  lent  to 
them  by  circumstances  are  stripped  away,  are  found 
still  to  be  of  worth  and  importance.  They  are 
the  wheat  left  in  the  threshing-floor  of  time,  when 
has  been  blown  away  the  chaff  of  sensational  scrib- 
blings,  noisily  notorious  productions,  and  tempo- 
rary works  of  what  sort  soever.  It  is  of  course  not 
impossible  that  a  work  may  have  both  kinds  of 
merit ;  and  it  is  by  no  means  safe  to  conclude  that 
a  book  is  not  of  enduring  worth  simply  because  it 
has  appealed  to  instant  interests  and  won  immedi- 
ate popularity.  '^  Don  Quixote,"  on  the  one  hand, 
and  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  on  the  other,  may  serve 
as  examples  of  works  which  were  timely  in  the 
best  sense,  and  which  yet  are  permanent  litera- 
ture. The  important  point  is  that  in  the  classics 
we  have  works  which,  whether  they  did  or  did 
not  receive  instant  recognition,  have  by  age  been 
stripped  of  the  accidental,  and  are  found  worthy 
in  virtue  of  the  essential  that  remains.  They  are 
books  which  have  been  proved  by  time,  and  have 
endured  the  test. 

The  decision  what  is   and   what   is   not   litera- 


130  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

ture  may  be  said  to  rest  with  the  general  voice  of 
the  intellectual  world.  Vague  as  the  phrase  may 
sound,  it  really  represents  the  shaping  power  of  the 
thought  of  the  race.  It  is  true  that  here  as  in  all 
other  matters  of  belief  the  general  voice  is  likely 
to  be  a  confirmation  and  a  repetition  of  the  voice 
of  the  few ;  but  whether  at  the  outset  indorsed  by 
the  few  or  not,  a  book  cannot  be  said  to  be  fairly 
entitled  to  the  name  "  classic  "  until  it  has  received 
this  general  sanction.  Although  this  sanction, 
moreover,  be  as  intangible  as  the  wind  in  a  sail, 
yet  like  the  wind  it  is  decisive  and  effective. 

The  leaders  of  thought,  moreover,  have  not  only 
praised  these  books  and  had  their  judgment  in- 
dorsed by  the  general  voice,  but  they  have  by  them 
formed  their  own  minds.  They  are  unanimous  in 
their  testimony  to  the  value  of  the  classics  in  the 
development  of  the  perceptions,  intellectual  and 
emotional.  So  universally  true  is  this  that  to  re- 
peat it  seems  the  reiteration  of  a  truism.  The  fact 
of  which  we  have  already  spoken,  the  fact  that 
those  who  in  theory  profess  to  respect  the  classics, 
do  yet  in  practice  neglect  them  utterly,  makes  it 
necessary  to  examine  the  grounds  upon  which  this 
truism  rests.  If  the  classics  are  the  books  which 
the  general  voice  of  the  best  intelligence  of  the 
race  has  declared  to  be  permanently  valuable,  if 
the  highest  minds  have  universally  claimed  to 
have  been  nourished  and  developed  by  them,  why 
is  it  that  we  so  often  neglect  and  practically  ignore 
them  ? 

In  the  first  place  there  are  the  obstacles  of  Ian- 


THE  CLASSICS  131 

guage.  There  are  the  so  to  say  technical  difficul- 
ties of  literary  diction  and  form  which  have  been 
somewhat  considered  in  the  preceding  talks.  There 
are  the  greater  difficulties  of  dealing  with  concep- 
tions which  belong  to  a  different  mental  world.  To 
a  savage,  the  intellectual  and  emotional  experiences 
of  a  civilized  man  would  be  incomprehensible,  no 
matter  in  how  clear  speech  they  were  expressed. 
To  the  unimaginative  man  the  life  of  the  world  of 
imagination  is  pretty  nearly  as  unintelligible  as  to 
the  bushman  of  Australian  wilds  would  be  the  sub- 
tly refined  distinctions  of  that  now  extinct  mon- 
ster, the  London  aesthete.  The  men  who  wrote  the 
classics  wrote  earnestly  and  with  profound  convic- 
tion that  which  they  profoundly  felt ;  it  is  needful 
to  attain  to  their  elevation  in  point  of  view  before 
what  they  have  written  can  be  comprehended. 
This  is  a  feat  by  no  means  easy  for  the  ordinary 
reader.  To  one  accustomed  only  to  facile  and 
commonplace  thoughts  and  emotions  it  is  by  no 
means  a  light  undertaking  to  rise  to  the  level  of  the 
masters.  Readers  to  whom  the  rhymes  of  the  "  poet's 
corner  "  in  the  newspapers,  for  instance,  are  thril- 
lingly  sweet,  are  hardly  to  be  expected  to  be  equal 
to  the  emotional  stress  of  Shelley's  "  Prometheus 
Unbound  ;  "  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  those  who 
find  "Over  the  Hills  to  the  Poor-House  "  soul-satis- 
fying will  respond  readily  to  the  poignant  pathos 
of  the  parting  of  Hector  and  Andromache.  The 
admirers  of  "  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night "  and 
the  jig-saw  school  of  verse  in  general  are  men- 
tally incapable  of  taking  the  attitude  of  genuinely 


132  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

imaginative  work.  The  greatest  author  can  do  but 
so  much  for  his  reader.  He  may  suggest,  but  each 
mind  must  for  itself  be  the  creator.  The  classics 
are  those  works  in  which  the  geniuses  of  the  world 
have  most  effectively  suggested  genuine  and  vital 
emotions ;  but  every  reader  must  feel  those  emo- 
tions for  himself.  Not  even  the  music  of  the 
spheres  could  touch  the  ear  of  a  deaf  man,  and  for 
the  blind  the  beauty  of  Grecian  Helen  would  be 
no  more  than  ugliness.  As  Mrs.  Browning  puts 
it:  — 

What  ang-el  but  would  seem 
To  sensual  eyes,  ghost-dim  ? 

The  sluggish  mind  is  incapable  of  comprehending, 
the  torpid  imagination  incapable  of  realizing ;  and 
the  struggle  to  attain  to  comprehension  and  to 
feeling  is  too  great  an  exertion  for  the  mentally 
indolent. 

It  is  no  less  true,  that  to  the  mind  unused  to 
high  emotions  the  vivid  life  of  imaginative  litera- 
ture is  disconcerting.  The  ordinary  reader  is  as 
abashed  in  the  presence  of  these  deep  and  vibrant 
feelings  which  he  does  not  understand,  and  cannot 
share,  as  would  be  an  English  washerwoman  to 
whom  a  duchess  paid  a  ceremonious  afternoon 
call.  The  feeling  of  inadequacy,  of  being  con- 
fronted with  an  occasion  to  the  requirements  of 
which  one  is  utterly  unequal,  is  baffling  and  unpleas- 
ant to  the  last  degree.  In  this  difficulty  of  compre- 
hending, and  in  this  inability  to  feel  equal  to  the 
demands  of  the  best  literature,  lies  the  most  obvious 
explanation  of  the  common  neglect  of  the  classics. 


i 


THE  CLASSICS  133 

It  is  also  true  that  genuine  literature  demands 
for  its  proper  appreciation  a  mood  which  is  funda- 
mentally grave.  Even  beneath  the  humorous  runs 
this  vein  of  serious  feeling.  It  is  not  possible 
to  read  Cervantes  or  Montaigne  or  Charles  Lamb 
sympathetically  without  having  behind  laughter  or 
smiles  a  certain  inner  solemnity.  Hidden  under 
the  coarse  and  roaring  fun  of  Rabelais  lurk  pro- 
found observations  upon  life,  which  no  earnest  man 
can  think  of  lightly.  The  jests  and  "excellent 
fooling  "  of  Shakespeare's  clowns  and  drolls  serve 
to  emphasize  the  deep  thought  or  sentiment  which 
is  the  real  import  of  the  poet's  work.  Genuine 
feeling  must  always  be  serious,  because  it  takes 
hold  upon  the  realities  of  human  existence. 

It  is  not  that  one  reading  the  classics  must  be 
sad.  Indeed,  there  is  nowhere  else  fun  so  keen, 
humor  so  exquisite,  or  sprightliness  so  enchanting. 
It  is  only  that  human  existence  is  a  solemn  thing 
if  viewed  with  a  realization  of  its  actualities  and 
its  possibilities ;  and  that  the  great  aim  of  real 
literature  is  the  presentation  of  life  in  its  essen- 
tials. It  is  not  possible  to  be  vividly  conscious 
of  the  mystery  in  the  midst  of  which  we  live  and 
not  be  touched  with  something  of  awe.  From 
this  solemnity  the  feeble  soul  shrinks  as  a  silly 
child  shrinks  from  the  dark.  The  most  profound 
feeling  of  which  many  persons  are  capable  is  the 
instinctive  desire  not  to  feel  deeply.  To  such 
readers  real  literature  means  nothing,  or  it  means 
too  much.  It  fails  to  move  them,  or  it  wearies 
them  by  forcing  them  to  feel. 


134  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

Yet  another  reason  for  the  neglect  of  the  clas- 
sics is  the  irresistible  attractiveness  which  belongs 
always  to  novelty,  which  makes  a  reader  choose 
whatever  is  new  rather  than  anything  which  has 
been  robbed  of  this  quality  by  time.  Every  mind 
which  is  at  all  responsive  is  sensitive  to  this  fasci- 
nation of  that  which  has  just  been  written.  What 
is  new  borrows  importance  from  the  infinite  possi- 
bilities of  the  unknown.  The  secret  of  life,  the 
great  key  to  all  the  baffling  mysteries  of  human 
existence,  is  still  just  beyond  the  bound  of  human 
endeavor,  and  there  is  always  a  tingling  sense  that 
whatever  is  fresh  may  have  touched  the  longed-for 
solution  to  the  riddle  of  existence.  This  zeal  for 
the  new  makes  the  old  to  be  left  neglected  ;  and 
while  we  are  eagerly  welcoming  novelties  which  in 
the  end  too  often  prove  to  be  of  little  or  no  value, 
the  classics,  of  tried  and  approved  worth,  stand  in 
forlorn  dust-gathering  on  the  higher  shelves  of  the 
library. 

A.  Conan  Doyle  is  reported  as  saying  in  a  speech 
before  a  literary  society  :  — 

It  might  be  no  bad  thing  for  a  man  now  and  again 
to  make  a  literary  retreat,  as  pious  men  make  a  spir- 
itual one ;  to  f orsw^ear  absolutely  for  a  month  in  the 
year  all  ephemeral  literature,  and  to  bring  an  untar- 
nished mind  to  the  reading  of  the  classics.  — London 
AcadeTny^  December  5,  1896. 

The  suggestion  is  so  good  that  if  it  does  not  seem 
practical,  it  is  so  much  the  worse  for  the  age.  jl 


i 


THE  VALUE   OF  THE  CLASSICS 

It  is  sufficiently  evident  that  the  natural  incli- 
nations of  the  ordinary  man  are  not  toward  imagi- 
native literature,  and  that  unless  there  were  strong 
and  tangible  reasons  why  it  is  worth  while  to  cul- 
tivate an  appreciation  and  a  fondness  for  them, 
the  classics  would  be  so  little  read  that  they  might 
as  well  be  sent  to  the  junk-shop  at  once,  save  for 
the  occasional  mortal  whom  the  gods  from  his 
birth  have  endowed  with  the  precious  gift  of  under- 
standing high  speech.  These  reasons,  moreover, 
must  apply  especially  to  the  classics  as  distin- 
guished from  books  in  general.  Briefly  stated, 
some  of  them  are  as  follows  :  — 

The  need  of  a  knowledge  of  the  classics  for  the 
understanding  of  literary  language  has  already 
been  spoken  of  at  some  length.  This  is,  of  course, 
a  minor  and  comparatively  extraneous  considera- 
tion, but  it  is  one  not  to  be  left  wholly  out.  It  is 
not  difficult,  however,  to  get  a  superficial  famili- 
arity with  famous  writings  by  means  of  literary 
dictionaries  and  extract  books ;  and  with  this  a 
good  many  persons  are  apparently  abundantly  con- 
tent. The  process  bears  the  same  relation  to  the 
actual  study  of  the  originals  that  looking  at  for- 


136  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

eign  photographic  views  does  to  traveling  abroad. 
It  is  undoubtedly  better  than  nothing,  although  it 
is  by  no  means  the  real  thing.  It  gives  one  an 
intellectual  understanding  of  classic  and  literary 
allusions,  but  not  an  emotional  one.  Fully  to  appre- 
ciate and  enjoy  the  allusions  with  which  literature 
is  filled,  it  is  essential  to  have  gained  knowledge 
directly  from  the  originals. 

One  reason  why  references  to  the  classics  are  so 
frequent  in  literary  language,  is  that  in  these  writ- 
ings are  found  thought  and  emotional  expression 
in  their  youth,  so  to  say.  Even  more  important 
than  learning  the  force  of  these  allusions  is  the 
coming  in  contact  with  this  fresh  inspiration  and 
utterance.  That  into  which  a  man  stei3s  full 
grown  can  never  be  to  him  the  same  as  that  in 
which  he  has  grown  up.  We  cannot  have  with  the 
thing  which  we  have  known  only  in  its  complete 
form  the  same  intimate  connection  as  with  that 
which  we  have  watched  from  its  very  beginnings. 
To  that  with  which  we  have  grown  we  are  united 
by  a  thousand  delicate  and  intangible  fibres,  fine 
as  cobweb  and  strong  as  steel.  The  student  who 
attempts  to  form  himself  solely  upon  the  literature 
of  to-day  misses  entirely  the  childhood,  the  youth, 
the  growth  of  literary  art.  He  comes  full  grown, 
and  generally  sophisticated,  to  that  which  is  itself 
full  grown  and  sophisticated.  It  is  not  possible 
for  him  to  become  himself  a  child,  but  he  may  go 
back  toward  the  childhood  of  emotional  expression 
and  as  it  were  advance  step  by  step  with  the  race. 
He  may  feel  each  fresh  emotional  discovery  as  if  it 


THE   VALUE  OF  THE  CLASSICS         137 

were  as  new  to  him  as  it  was  in  truth  new  for  the 
author  who  centuries  ago  expressed  it  so  well  thai 
the  record  has  become  immortal. 

I  do  not  know  whether  what  I  mean  is  full> 
clear,  and  it  is  of  course  difficult  to  give  example^' 
where  the  matter  is  so  subtle.  It  is  certain,  how- 
ever, that  any  reader  of  early  literature  must  be 
conscious  how  in  the  simplicity  and  naivete  of  the 
best  old  authors  we  find  things  which  are  now 
hackneyed  and  all  but  commonplace  said  with  a 
freshness  and  conviction  which  makes  them  for  the 
first  time  real  to  us.  Many  emotions  have  been  so 
long  recognized  and  expressed  in  literature  that 
there  seems  hardly  to  be  a  conceivable  phase  in 
which  they  have  not  been  shown,  and  hardly  a 
conceivable  phrase  in  which  they  have  not  been 
embodied.  It  appears  impossible  to  express  them 
now  with  the  freshness  and  sincerity  which  be- 
longed to  them  when  they  were  first  imprisoned 
in  words.  So  true  is  this  that  were  it  not  that 
the  personal  impress  of  genius  and  the  experience 
of  the  imaginative  writer  always  give  vitality,  lit- 
erature would  cease  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and 
become  a  lost  art. 

It  is  the  persuasion  and  vividness  of  first  dis- 
covery which  impart  to  the  folk-song  its  charm 
and  force.  The  early  ballads  often  put  to  shame 
the  poetry  of  later  days.  The  unsophisticated 
singers  of  these  lays  had  never  been  told  that  it 
was  proper  for  them  to  have  any  especial  emotions ; 
they  had  never  heard  talk  about  this  feeling  or 
that,  and  art  did  not  consciously  exist  for  them  as 


138  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

other  than  the  spontaneous  and  sincere  expression 
of  what  really  moved  them.  That  which  they  felt 
too  strongly  to  repress,  they  said  without  any  self- 
consciousness.  Their  artistic  forms  were  so  simple 
as  to  impose  no  hindrance  to  the  instinctive  desire 
for  revealing  to  others  what  swelled  in  their  very 
hearts.  The  result  is  that  impressiveness  and  that 
convincingness  which  can  come  from  nothing  but 
perfect  sincerity.  Innumerable  poets  have  put 
into  verse  the  sentiments  of  the  familiar  folk-song, 
"  Waly,  waly ;  "  yet  it  is  not  easy  to  find  in  all  the 
list  the  same  thing  said  with  a  certain  childlike 
directness  which  goes  to  the  heart  that  one  finds 
in  passages  like  this  :  — 

O  waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonny 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new  ; 
But  when  't  is  auld,  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fades  awa'  like  morning  dew ! 

What  later  singer  is  there  who  has  surpassed  in 
pathos  that  makes  the  heart  ache  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  "  Fair  Helen  "  ? 

I  would  I  were  where  Helen  lies ; 
Nig-ht  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
Oh,  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies 
On  fair  Kirconnell  Lea !  .  .  . 

I  would  I  were  where  Helen  lies ;  / 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 
Since  my  love  died  for  me. 

The  directness  and  simplicity  which  are  the 
charm  of  folk-song  and  ballad  are  far  more  likely 
to  be  found  in  early  literature  than  in  that  which 
is  produced  under  conditions  which  foster  self- 
consciousness.     They  belong,  it  is  true,  to  the  work 


< 


THE  VALUE  OF  THE  CLASSICS         139 

of  all  really  great  writers.  No  man  can  produce 
genuinely  great  art  without  being  completely  pos- 
sessed by  the  emotions  which  he  expresses ;  so  that 
for  the  time  being  he  is  not  wholly  removed  from 
the  mood  of  the  primitive  singers.  Singleness  of 
purpose  and  simplicity  of  expression,  however,  are 
the  birthright  of  those  writers  who  have  been  pio- 
neers in  literature.  It  is  chiefly  in  their  work  that 
we  may  hope  to  experience  the  delight  of  finding 
emotions  in  the  freshness  of  their  first  youth,  of 
gaining  something  of  that  realization  of  perception 
which  is  fully  only  his  who  first  of  mortal  men  dis- 
covers and  proclaims  some  new  possibility  of  human 
existence. 

Another  quality  of  much  importance  in  primi- 
tive writings  and  the  early  classics  is  complete 
freedom  from  sentimentality.  As  certain  para- 
sites do  not  attack  young  trees,  so  sentimentality 
is  a  fungus  which  never  appears  upon  a  literature 
until  it  is  well  grown.  It  is  not  until  a  people  is 
sufficiently  cultivated  to  appreciate  the  expression 
of  emotions  in  art  that  it  is  capable  of  imitating 
them  or  of  simulating  that  which  it  has  learned  to 
regard  as  a  desirable  or  noble  feeling.  As  culti- 
vation advances,  there  is  sure  to  be  at  length  a 
time  when  those  who  have  more  vanity  than  senti- 
ment begin  to  affect  that  which  it  has  come  to  be 
considered  a  mark  of  high  cultivation  to  feel.  We 
all  know  this  vice  of  affectation  too  well,  and  I 
mention  it  only  to  remark  that  from  this  literature 
in  its  early  stages  is  far  more  apt  to  be  free  than 
it  is  in  its  later  and  more  consciously  developed 
phases. 


140  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

The  blight  which  follows  sentimentality  is  mor- 
bidity ;  and  one  of  the  most  important  character- 
istics of  the  genuine  classics  is  their  wholesome 
sanity.  By  sanity  I  mean  freedom  from  the  mor- 
bid and  the  diseased ;  and  the  quality  is  one 
especially  to  be  prized  in  these  days  of  morbid  ten- 
dencies and  diseased  eccentricities.  There  is  much 
in  many  of  the  classics  which  is  sufficiently  coarse 
when  measured  by  later  and  more  refined  stand- 
ards ;  but  even  this  is  free  from  the  gangrene 
which  has  developed  in  over-ripe  civilizations. 
Rabelais  chose  the  dung-hill  as  his  pulpit ;  in 
Shakespeare  and  Chaucer  and  Homer  and  in  the 
Bible  there  are  many  things  which  no  clean-minded 
man  would  now  think  of  saying;  but  there  is  in 
none  of  these  any  of  that  insane  pruriency  which 
is  the  chief  claim  to  distinction  of  several  notorious 
contemporary  authors.  Neither  is  there  in  classic 
writers  the  puling,  sentimental,  sickly  way  of  look- 
ing at  life  as  something  all  awry.  The  reader  who 
sits  down  to  the  Greek  poets,  to  Dante,  to  Chaucer, 
to  Moliere,  to  Shakespeare,  to  Cervantes,  to  Mon- 
taigne, to  Milton,  knows  at  least  that  he  is  enter- 
ing an  atmosphere  wholesome,  bracing,  and  manly, 
free  alike  from  sentimentality  and  from  all  morbid 
and  insane  taint. 

Besides  a  knowledge  of  literary  language,  we 
must  from  the  classics  gain  our  standards  of  liter- 
ary judgment.  This  follows  from  what  has  been 
said  of  temporary  and  permanent  interest  in  books. 
Only  in  the  classics  do  we  find  literature  reduced 
to  its  essentials.     The  accidental  associations  which 


THE   VALUE  OF  THE  CLASSICS         141 

cluster  about  any  contemporary  work,  the  fleeting 
value  which  this  or  that  may  have  from  accidental 
conditions,  the  obscurity  into  which  prejudice  of 
a  particular  time  may  throw  real  merit,  all  help 
to  make  it  impossible  to  learn  from  contemporary 
work  what  is  really  and  essentially  bad  or  good.  It 
is  from  works  which  may  be  looked  at  dispassion- 
ately, writings  from  which  the  accidental  has  been 
stripped  by  time,  that  we  must  inform  ourselves 
what  shall  be  the  standard  of  merit.  It  is  only 
from  the  classics  that  we  may  learn  to  discriminate 
the  essential  from  the  incidental,  the  permanent 
from  the  temporary ;  and  thus  gain  a  criterion  by 
which  to  try  the  innumerable  books  poured  upon 
us  by  the  inexhaustible  press  of  to-day. 

Nor  do  we  gain  only  standards  of  literature  from 
the  classics,  but  standards  of  life  as  well.  In  a 
certain  sense  standards  of  literature  and  of  life 
may  be  said  to  be  one,  since  our  estimate  of  the 
truth  and  the  value  of  a  work  of  art  and  our  judg- 
ment of  the  meaning  and  value  of  existence  can 
hardly  be  separated.  The  highest  object  for  which 
we  study  any  literature  being  to  develop  character 
and  to  gain  a  knowledge  of  the  conditions  of  being, 
it  follows  that  it  is  for  these  reasons  in  especial 
that  we  turn  to  the  classics.  These  works  are  the 
verdicts  upon  life  which  have  been  most  generally 
approved  by  the  wisest  men  who  have  lived ;  and 
they  have  been  tested  not  by  the  experiences  of 
one  generation  only,  but  by  those  of  succeeding 
centuries.  For  wise,  wholesome,  and  comprehen- 
sive living  there  is  no  better  aid  than  a  familiar, 
intimate,  sympathetic  knowledge  of  the  classics. 


XI 

THE   GREATER   CLASSICS 

There  are,  then,  clear  and  grave  reasons  why 
the  classics  are  worthy  of  the  most  intelligent  and 
careful  attention.  The  evidence  supports  culti- 
vated theory  rather  than  popular  practice.  We 
are  surely  right  in  the  most  exacting  estimate  of 
the  place  that  they  should  hold  in  our  lives ;  and 
in  so  far  as  we  neglect  them,  in  so  far  we  are  justly 
condemned  by  the  general  if  vague  opinion  of  soci- 
ety at  large.  They  are  the  works  to  which  apply 
with  especial  force  whatever  reasons  there  are 
which  give  value  to  literature ;  they  are  the  means 
most  efficient  and  most  readily  at  hand  for  the 
enriching  and  the  ennobling  of  life. 

It  is  impossible  here  to  specify  to  any  great  ex- 
tent what  individual  books  among  the  classics  are 
of  most  importance.  This  has  been  done  over  and 
over,  and  it  is  within  the  scope  of  these  talks  to  do 
little  more  than  to  consider  the  general  relation  to 
life  of  the  study  of  literature.  Some,  however,  are 
of  so  much  prominence  that  it  is  impossible  to  pass 
them  in  silence.  There  are  certain  works  which 
inevitably  come  to  the  mind  as  soon  as  one  speaks 
of  the  classics  at  all ;  and  of  these  perhaps  the  most 
prominent  are  the  Bible,  Homer,  Dante,  Chaucer, 


THE  GREATER   CLASSICS  143 

and  Shakespeare.  The  Greek  tragedians,  Boccaccio, 
Moliere,  Cervantes,  Montaigne,  Spenser,  Milton, 
Ariosto,  Petrarch,  Tasso,  and  the  glorious  company 
of  other  writers,  such  as  the  Elizabethan  drama- 
tists and  the  few  really  great  Latin  authors,  it 
seems  almost  inexcusable  not  to  discuss  individ- 
ually, yet  they  must  be  passed  over  here.  The 
simple  lists  of  these  men  and  their  works  give  to 
the  mind  of  the  genuine  book-lover  a  glow  as  if 
he  had  drunk  of  generous  wine.  No  man  eager  to 
get  the  most  from  life  will  pass  them  by ;  but  in 
these  talks  there  is  not  space  to  consider  them  par- 
ticularly. 

Although  it  is  only  with  its  literary  values  that 
we  have  at  present  any  concern,  it  is  somewhat 
difficult  to  speak  of  the  Bible  from  a  merely  liter- 
ary point  of  view.  Those  who  regard  the  Bible  as 
an  inspired  oracle  are  apt  to  forget  that  it  has  too 
a  literary  worth,  distinct  from  its  religious  function, 
and  they  are  inclined  to  feel  somewhat  shocked  at 
any  discussion  which  even  for  the  moment  leaves 
its  ethical  character  out  of  account.  On  the  other 
hand,  those  who  look  upon  the  Scriptures  as  the 
instrument  of  a  theology  of  which  they  do  not  ap- 
prove are  apt  in  their  hostility  to  be  blind  to  the 
literary  importance  and  excellence  of  the  work. 
There  is,  too,  a  third  class,  perhaps  to-day,  and 
especially  among  the  rising  generation,  the  most 
numerous  of  all,  who  simply  neglect  the  Bible  as 
dull  and  unattractive,  and  made  doubly  so  by  the 
iteration  of  appeals  that  it  be  read  as  a  religious 
guide.     Undoubtedly  this  feeling  has  been  fostered 


144  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

by  the  injudicious  zeal  of  many  of  the  friends  of 
the  book,  who  have  forced  the  Scriptures  forward 
until  they  have  awakened  that  impulse  of  resist- 
ance which  is  the  instinctive  self-preservation  of 
individuality.  In  all  these  classes  for  different 
reasons  praise  of  the  Bible  is  likely  to  awaken  a 
feeling  of  opposition;  yet  the  fact  remains  that 
from  a  purely  literary  point  of  view  the  Bible  is 
the  most  important  prose  work  in  the  language. 

The  rational  attitude  of  the  student  toward  the 
Scriptures  is  that  which  separates  entirely  the  reli- 
gious from  the  literary  consideration.  I  wish  to 
speak  on  the  same  footing  to  those  who  do  and 
those  who  do  not  regard  the  Bible  as  a  sacred 
book,  with  those  who  do  and  those  who  do  not 
receive  its  religious  teachings.  Let  for  the  mo- 
ment these  points  be  waived  entirely,  and  there 
remains  the  splendid  literary  worth  of  this  great 
classic ;  there  remains  the  fact  that  it  has  shaped 
faith  and  fortune  for  the  whole  of  Europe  and 
America  for  centuries ;  and  especially  that  the 
English  version  has  been  the  most  powerful  of  all 
intellectual  and  imaginative  forces  in  moulding  the 
thought  and  the  literature  of  all  English-speaking 
peoples.  One  may  regard  the  theological  effects  of 
the  Scriptures  as  altogether  admirable,  or  one  may 
feel  that  some  of  them  have  been  narrowing  and 
unfortunate ;  one  may  reject  or  accept  the  book  as 
a  religious  authority  ;  but  at  least  one  must  recog- 
nize that  it  is  not  possible  to  enter  upon  the  intel- 
lectual and  emotional  heritage  of  the  race  without 
being  acquainted  with  the  King  James  Bible. 


THE  GREATER   CLASSICS  145 

"Intense  study  of  the  Bible,"  Coleridge  has 
said  most  justly,  "  will  keep  any  writer  from  being 
vulgar  in  point  of  style."  He  might  almost  have 
added  that  appreciative  study  of  this  book  will  pro- 
tect any  reader  from  vulgarity  in  literature  and 
life  alike.  The  early  sacred  writings  of  any  people 
have  in  them  the  dignity  of  sincere  conviction 
and  imaginative  emotion.  The  races  to  which 
these  books  have  been  divine  have  revered  them 
as  the  word  of  the  Deity,  but  it  is  the  supreme  emo- 
tion which  thrills  through  them  that  has  touched 
their  readers  and  made  possible  and  real  the  claim 
of  inspiration.  Every  responsive  reader  must 
vibrate  with  the  human  feeling  of  which  they  are 
full.  We  are  little  likely  to  have  anything  but 
curiosity  concerning  the  dogmas  of  the  ancient 
Hindoo  or  Persian  religion,  yet  it  is  impossible  to 
read  the  ecstatic  hymns  of  the  Vedas  or  the  exalted 
pages  of  the  Zend-Avesta  without  being  profoundly 
moved  by  the  humanity  which  cries  out  in  them. 
Of  the  Bible  this  is  especially  true  for  us,  because 
the  book  is  so  closely  connected  with  the  life  and 
development  of  our  branch  of  the  human  family. 

If  it  were  asked  which  of  the  classics  a  man 
absolutely  must  know  to  attain  to  a  knowledge  of 
literature  even  respectable,  the  answer  undoubtedly 
would  be :  "  The  Bible  and  Shakespeare."  He 
must  be  familiar  —  familiar  in  the  sense  in  which 
we  use  that  word  in  the  phrase,  "  mine  own  familiar 
friend,  in  whom  I  trusted  "  —  with  the  greatest 
plays  of  Shakespeare,  and  with  the  finer  portions 
of  the  Scriptures.     I  do  not  of  course  mean  all  of 


146  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

the  Bible.  Nobody,  no  matter  bow  devout,  can  be 
expected  to  find  imaginative  stimulus  in  strings  of 
genealogies  such  as  that  which  begins  the  Book  of 
Chronicles,  or  in  the  minute  details  of  the  Jewish 
ceremonial  law.  I  mean  the  simple  directness  of 
Genesis  and  Exodus  ;  the  straightforward  sincer- 
ity  of  Judges  and  Joshua ;  the  sweetness  and  beauty 
of  Ruth  and  Esther ;  the  passionately  idealized 
sensuousness  of  Canticles  ;  the  shrewdly  pathetic 
wisdom  of  Ecclesiastes ;  the  splendidly  imaginative 
ecstasies  of  Isaiah ;  the  uplift  of  the  Psalms  ;  the  ten- 
der virility  of  the  Gospels  ;  the  spiritual  dithyram- 
bics  of  the  Apocalypse.  No  reader  less  dull  than 
a  clod  can  remain  unreverent  and  unthrilled  in  the 
presence  of  that  magnificent  poem  which  one  hesi- 
tates to  say  is  surpassed  by  either  Homer  or  Dante, 
the  Book  of  Job.  The  student  of  literature  may 
be  of  any  religion  or  of  no  religion,  but  he  must 
realize,  and  realize  by  intimate  acquaintance,  that, 
taken  as  a  whole,  the  Bible  is  the  most  virile,  the 
most  idiomatic,  the  most  imaginative  prose  work  in 
the  language. 

The  appearance  of  literary  editions  of  portions 
of  the  Bible  for  general  reading  is  an  encouraging 
sign  that  there  is  to-day  a  reaction  from  the  neg- 
lect into  which  the  book  has  fallen.  Unfortu- 
nately, these  editions  follow  for  the  most  part  the 
text  of  the  Revised  Version,  which  may  be  excellent 
from  a  theological  point  of  view,  but  which  from 
a  literary  one  stands  in  much  the  same  relation 
to  the  King  James  version  as  the  paraphrases 
of  Dry  den  stand  to  the  original  text  of  Chaucer 


THE  GREATER   CLASSICS  147 

The  literary  student  is  concerned  with  the  book 
which  has  been  in  the  hands  and  hearts  of  writers 
and  thinkers  of  preceding  generations ;  with  the 
words  which  have  tinctured  the  prose  masterpieces 
and  given  color  to  the  poetry  of  our  tongue.  To 
attempt  to  alter  the  text  now  is  for  the  genuine 
literary  student  not  unlike  modernizing  Shake- 
speare. 

The  Bible  is  a  library  in  itself,  so  great  is  its 
variety;  and  it  is  practically  indispensable  as  a 
companion  in  literary  study.  To  neglect  it  is  one 
of  the  most  grave  errors  possible  to  the  student. 
It  has,  it  is  true,  its  serious  and  obvious  defects, 
and  from  a  literary  point  of  view  the  New  Testa- 
ment is  infinitely  less  interesting  than  the  Old ; 
but  taken  all  in  all,  it  is  a  great  and  an  enchanting 
book,  permanent  in  its  worth  and  permanent  in  its 
interest. 

To  go  on  to  talk  of  Homer  is  at  once  to  bring 
up  the  much-vexed  question  of  reading  translations. 
It  seems  to  me  rather  idle  in  these  days  to  take 
time  to  discuss  this.  Whatever  decision  be  arrived 
at,  the  fact  remains  that  the  general  reader  will 
not  read  the  classics  in  the  original.  However 
great  the  loss,  he  must  take  them  in  the  English 
version,  or  let  them  alone.  Even  the  most  accom- 
plished graduates  of  the  best  colleges  are  not  al- 
ways capable  of  appreciating  in  Greek  the  literary 
flavor  of  the  works  which  they  can  translate  pretty 
accurately.  There  is  no  longer  time  in  these  busy 
and  over-crowded  days  for  the  student  so  to  satu- 
rate himself  with  a  dead  language  that  it  shall  be 


148  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

as  familiar  to  him  as  his  own  tongue.  The  multi- 
plicity of  present  impressions  renders  it  all  but  im- 
possible to  get  completely  into  the  atmosphere  of 
a  civilization  bygone.  A  few  of  the  men  trained 
in  foreign  schools  in  the  most  scholarly  fashion 
have  probably  arrived  at  the  power  of  feeling  sen- 
sitively the  literary  quality  of  the  classics  in  the 
original ;  but  for  the  ordinary  student,  this  is  en- 
tirely out  of  the  question.  It  is  sad,  but  it  is  an 
inevitable  human  limitation.  Emerson,  as  is  well 
known,  boldly  commended  the  practice  of  reading 
translations.  His  sterling  sense  probably  desired 
the  consistency  of  having  theory  agree  with  prac- 
tice where  there  is  not  the  slightest  hope  of  mak- 
ing practice  agree  with  theory.  Whether  we  like 
it  or  do  not  like  it,  the  truth  is  that  most  persons 
will  take  the  Greek  and  Latin  authors  in  transla- 
tion or  not  at  all. 

And  certainly  they  must  be  read  in  some  tongue. 
No  genuine  student  of  literature  will  neglect  Homer 
or  the  Greek  tragedians.  The  old  Greeks  were  by 
no  means  always  estimable  creatures.  They  not 
infrequently  did  those  things  which  they  ought  not 
to  have  done,  and  left  undone  those  things  which 
they  ought  to  have  done  ;  but  the  prayer-book  did 
not  then  exist,  so  that  in  spite  of  all  there  was 
plenty  of  health  in  them.  They  were  not  models 
in  morals,  while  they  were  entirely  unacquainted 
with  many  modern  refinements  ;  but  they  were 
eminently  human.  They  were  sane  and  wholesome 
beings,  manly  and  womanly ;  so  that  a  reader  is 
in  far  better  company  with  the  heroes  of  Homer  in 


THE  GREATER   CLASSICS  149 

their  vices  than  he  is  with  the  morbid  creations  of 
much  modern  fiction  in  their  moments  of  the  most 
conscious  and  painfully  elaborated  virtue.  Herein, 
it  seems  to  me,  lies  the  greatest  value  of  Greek 
literature.  Before  he  can  be  anything  else  thor- 
oughly and  soundly,  a  man  must  be  healthily  hu- 
man. Hot -house  virtue  is  on  the  whole  about 
as  dangerous  a  disease  as  open-air  vice  ;  and  it 
is  far  more  diflScult  to  cure.  Unless  a  man  or  a 
woman  be  genuine,  he  or  she  is  nothing,  and  the 
mere  appearance  of  good  or  evil  is  not  of  profound 
consequence.  To  be  sane  and  human,  to  think 
genuine  thoughts,  and  to  do  genuine  deeds,  is  the 
beginning  of  all  real  virtue ;  and  nothing  is  more 
conducive  to  the  development  of  genuineness  than 
the  company  of  those  who  are  sound  and  real.  If 
we  are  with  whole-souled  folk,  we  cannot  pose, 
even  to  ourselves ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
reader  who,  with  full  and  buoyant  imagination, 
puts  himseK  into  the  company  of  the  Greeks  of 
Homer  or  JEschylus  or  Euripides  or  Sophocles 
cannot  be  content,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  to  be 
anything  but  a  simply  genuine  human  creature 
himself. 

Of  course  I  do  not  mean  that  the  reader  reasons 
this  out.  Consciously  to  think  that  we  will  be 
genuine  is  dangerously  near  a  pose  in  itself.  It  is 
that  he  finds  himself  in  a  company  so  thoroughly 
manly,  so  real  and  virile,  that  he  instinctively  will 
take  long  breaths,  and  without  thinking  of  it  lay 
aside  the  conventional  pose  which  self  is  so  apt  to 
impose  upon  self.     We  do  not,  while  reading,  lose 


150  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

in  the  least  tlie  power  of  judging  between  right 
and  wrong.  We  realize  that  Ulysses,  delightful 
old  rascal  though  he  is,  is  an  unconscionable  trick- 
ster. We  are  no  more  likely  to  play  fast  and  loose 
with  domestic  ties  because  the  Grecian  heroes,  and 
even  the  Greek  gods,  left  their  morals  at  home  for 
their  wives  to  keep  bright  while  they  went  abroad 
to  take  their  pleasure.  Manners  and  standards  in 
those  days  were  not  altogether  the  same  that  they 
are  now ;  but  right  is  right  in  Homer,  and  wrong 
is  wrong,  as  it  is  in  the  work  of  every  really  great 
poet  since  the  world  began.  The  whole  of  Greek 
poetry,  like  Greek  sculpture,  has  an  enchanting 
and  wholesome  open-air  quality  ;  and  even  when  it 
is  nude  it  is  not  naked.  We  miss  much  of  the 
beauty  by  losing  the  wonderful  form,  and  no  trans- 
lation ever  approached  the  original,  but  we  get 
alwaj^s  the  mood  of  sanity  and  reality. 

The  mood  of  Dante  seems  sometimes  more  diffi- 
cult for  the  modern  reader  than  that  of  the  Greeks. 
The  high  spiritual  severity,  the  passionate  auster- 
ity of  the  Florentine,  are  certainly  far  removed 
from  the  busy,  practical  temper  of  to-day.  Far 
away  as  they  are  in  time,  the  Greeks  were  after  all 
men  of  tangible  deeds,  of  practical  affairs;  they 
knew  the  taste  of  ginger  hot  i'  the  mouth,  and  took 
hold  upon  life  with  a  zest  thoroughly  to  be  ap- 
preciated in  this  materialistic  age.  Dante,  on  the 
other  hand,  has  the  burning  solemnity  of  the  pro- 
phets of  the  Old  Testament,  so  that  the  point  of 
view  of  the  "  Divine  Comedy  "  is  not  far  removed 
from  that  of  Isaiah.    Of  all  the  o:reatest  classics  the 


THE  GREATER   CLASSICS  151 

"  Divine  Comedy "  is  probably  the  least  read,  to- 
day, at  any  rate  in  this  country.  The  translations 
of  it  are  for  the  most  part  hopelessly  unsatisfac- 
tory, the  impossibility  of  setting  poetry  over  from 
the  honeyed  Italian  into  a  language  of  a  genius  so 
different  as  the  English  being  painfully  obvious 
even  to  those  little  critical.  There  is  a  great  deal 
that  is  obscure,  and  yet  more  which  cannot  be  un- 
derstood without  a  good  deal  of  special  historical 
information  ;  so  that  it  is  impossible  to  read  Dante 
for  the  first  time  without  that  frequent  reference 
to  the  notes  which  is  so  unfortunate  and  undesira- 
ble in  a  first  reading.  It  is  practically  necessary 
to  go  over  the  notes  with  care  once  or  twice  before 
attempting  the  poem.  Get  the  information  first, 
and  then  plunge  into  the  poetry.  It  is  a  plunge 
into  a  sea  whereof  the  brine  is  bitter,  the  waters 
piercingly  cold,  and  where  not  infrequently  the 
waves  roll  high  ;  but  it  is  a  plunge  invigorating 
and  life-giving.  The  man  who  has  once  read  Dante 
with  sympathy  and  delight  can  never  again  be 
wholly  common  and  unclean,  no  matter  into  what 
wof ul  faults  and  follies  he  may  thereafter  fall. 

To  come  nearer  home,  readers  are  somewhat 
foolishly  apt  to  feel  that  it  is  about  as  difficult  to 
read  Chaucer  as  it  is  to  read  Homer  or  Dante. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  any  intelligent  and  educated 
person  should  be  able  to  master  the  theories  of  the 
pronunciation  of  Chaucerian  English  in  a  couple 
of  mornings,  and  to  read  him  with  ease  and  pleas- 
ure in  a  week  or  two  at  most.  It  is  a  pity  that 
there  is  not  a  good  complete  edition  of  Chaucer 


152  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

pointed  and  accented,  so  that  tlie  reader  might  not 
be  troubled  with  any  consciousness  of  effort ;  but 
after  all,  the  difficulty  lies  more  in  the  idea  than  in 
the  fact.  When  one  has  mastered  the  language  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  in  company  how  enchanting 
does  he  find  himself !  The  sweetness,  the  whole- 
someness,  the  kindliness,  the  sincerity,  the  humor, 
and  the  humanity  of  Chaucer  can  hardly  be  over- 
praised. 

Of  Shakespeare,  —  "  our  myriad-minded  Shake- 
speare," —  it  seems  almost  needless  to  speak.  Con- 
cerning his  poetry  one  may  be  silent  because  the 
theme  is  so  wide,  and  because  writers  so  many  and 
so  able  have  already  discoursed  upon  the  subject 
so  eloquently.  To  attempt  to-day  to  explain  why 
men  should  read  Shakespeare  is  like  entering  into 
an  argument  to  prove  that  men  should  delight  in 
the  sunshine  or  to  explain  that  the  sea  is  beautiful 
and  wonderful.  If  readers  to-day  neglect  this  su- 
preme classic  it  is  not  from  ignorance  of  its  impor- 
tance. It  may  be  from  a  want  of  realization  of  the 
pleasure  and  inspiration  which  the  poet  affords. 
Those  who  have  not  tested  it  may  doubt  as  one 
heart-whole  doubts  the  joys  of  love,  and  in  either 
case  only  experience  can  make  wise. 

Dryden's  words  may  suffice  here  and  stand  for 
all  the  quotations  which  might  be  made  :  — 

To  begin  with  Shakespeare.  He  was  the  man  who  of 
all  modern  and  perhaps  ancient  poets  had  the  largest 
and  most  comprehensive  soul.  All  the  images  of  na- 
ture were  still  present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them  not 
laboriously,  but  luckily :  when  he  describes  anything  you 
more  than  see  it,  you  feel  it. 


THE  GREATER  CLASSICS  153 

The  man  who  does  not  read  and  delight  in  this 
poet  is  scarcely  to  be  considered  intellectually  alive 
at  all,  as  far  as  there  is  any  connection  between  the 
mind  and  literature ;  and  the  highest  intellectual 
crime  of  which  an  English-speaking  man  is  capable 
is  to  leave  his  Shakespeare  to  gather  dust  upon  his 
shelves  unread. 

In  all  this  I  do  not  wish  to  be  understood  as 
holding  that  we  are  always  to  read  the  classics,  or 
that  we  are  to  read  nothing  else.  To  live  up  to  the 
requirements  of  the  society  of  Apollo  continuously 
would  be  too  fatiguing  even  for  the  Muses.  We 
cannot  be  always  in  a  state  of  exaltation ;  but  we 
cannot  in  any  high  sense  live  at  all  without  becom- 
ing familiar  with  what  exalted  living  is.  The  study 
of  the  classics  calls  for  conscious  and  often  for 
strong  endeavor.  We  do  not  put  ourselves  thor- 
oughly into  the  mood  of  other  times  and  of  remote 
conditions  without  eifort.  Indeed,  it  requires  effort 
to  lift  our  less  buoyant  imaginations  to  the  level  of 
any  great  work.  The  sympathetic  reading  of  any 
supremely  imaginative  author  is  like  climbing  a 
mountain,  —  it  is  not  to  be  accomplished  without 
strain,  but  it  rewards  one  with  the  breath  of  an 
upper  air  and  a  breadth  of  view  impossible  in  the 
valley.  For  him  who  prefers  the  outlook  of  the 
earth-worm  to  that  of  the  eagle  the  classics  have 
no  message  and  no  meaning.  For  him  who  is  not 
content  with  any  view  save  the  widest,  these  are 
the  mountain  peaks  which  lift  to  the  highest  and 
noblest  sight. 


XII 

CONTEMPORARY   LITERATURE 

We  speak  of  the  classics,  of  ancient  literature, 
and  of  contemporary  literature,  but  in  reality  all 
literature  is  one.  We  divide  it  into  sections  for 
convenience  of  study,  but  it  is  a  notable  error  to 
forget  that  it  is  consecutive  from  the  dawn  of  civili- 
zation to  the  present.  It  is  true  that  in  applying 
the  term  to  works  of  our  own  time  it  is  both  cus- 
tomary and  necessary  to  employ  the  word  with  a 
meaning  wider  than  that  which  it  has  elsewhere. 
It  is  often  difficult  to  distinguish  in  contemporary 
productions  that  which  is  of  genuine  and  lasting 
merit  from  that  which  is  simply  meretricious  and 
momentary,  and  still  harder  to  force  others  to  rec- 
ognize such  distinction  when  made.  It  is  there- 
fore inevitable  that  the  name  literature  should 
have  a  broader  signification  than  when  applied  to 
work  which  has  been  tested  and  approved  by  time. 

There  are  few  things  more  perplexing  than  the 
attempt  to  choose  from  the  all  but  innumerable 
books  of  our  own  day  those  which  are  to  be  con- 
sidered as  genuine.  If  we  are  able  to  keep  vividly 
in  mind  what  qualities  make  a  thing  literature,  it 
is  possible  to  have  some  not  inadequate  idea  of  what 
contemporary  writings  most  completely  fulfill  the 


CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE         155 

given  conditions.  We  are  able  to  speak  with  as- 
surance of  tlie  work  of  a  Tennyson  or  a  Browning ; 
and  to  feel  that  we  have  witnessed  the  birth  of 
classics  of  the  future.  Beside  these,  however,  stand 
the  enormous  multitude  of  books  which  are  widely 
read,  much  talked  about,  and  voluminously  adver- 
tised ;  books  which  we  cannot  openly  dispraise 
without  the  risk  of  being  sneered  at  as  captious 
or  condemned  as  conceited.  There  are  the  poems 
which  publishers  inform  the  public  in  column-long 
advertisements,  bristling  with  the  testimonials  of 
men  and  women  who  make  writing  their  business, 
are  the  finest  productions  since  Shakespeare ;  there 
are  the  novels  which  prove  themselves  to  be  works 
of  genius  by  selling  by  the  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  copies  and  very  likely  being  given  to  the  pur- 
chasers of  six  bars  of  some  patent  soap ;  there  are 
the  thin  and  persecuted  looking  volumes  of  "  prose 
poems  "  or  rhyming  prose  which  are  looked  upon 
by  small  bands  of  devoted  followers  as  the  morsel 
of  leaven  which  is  to  leaven  the  whole  lump  ;  there 
are,  in  short,  all  those  perplexing  writings  which 
have  merit  of  some  kind  and  in  some  degree,  yet 
to  decide  the  genuine  and  lasting  merit  of  which 
might  tax  the  wisdom  and  the  patience  of  a  Solo- 
mon of  Solomons. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  the  effect  which  tem- 
porary qualities  are  sure  to  have  in  determining 
the  success  of  an  author.  The  history  of  books  is 
full  of  instances  of  works  which  have  in  their  brief 
day  filled  the  reading  world  with  noisy  admiration, 
but  which  have  in  the  end  been  found  destitute  of 


156  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

enduring  merit.  While  transient  fame  is  at  its 
height,  while  enthusiastically  injudicious  admirers 
are  praising  and  judiciously  enthusiastic  publish- 
ers are  reechoing  their  plaudits,  it  is  a  well-trained 
mind  that  is  able  to  form  a  sound  and  rational 
judgment,  and  to  distinguish  between  the  ephem- 
eral and  the  abiding.  The  only  hope  lies  in  a 
careful  and  discriminating  application  of  standards 
deduced  from  the  classics.  He  who  desires  to 
judge  the  books  of  to-day  must  depend  upon  com- 
parison with  the  books  of  yesterday.  He  must  be 
able  to  feel  toward  the  literature  of  the  past  as  if 
it  were  of  the  present,  and  toward  that  of  the  pres- 
ent as  if  it  were  of  the  past. 

It  is  not  to  the  popular  verdict  upon  a  work  that 
one  can  look  for  aid  in  deciding  upon  real  merit. 
In  time  the  general  public  accepts  the  verdict  of 
the  few,  but  at  first  it  is  the  noisy  opinion  of  the 
many,  voluble  and  undiscriminating,  which  is  heard. 
The  general  public  is  always  affected  more  by  the 
accidental  than  by  the  permanent  qualities  of  a 
work,  and  it  is  more  often  imposed  upon  by  shams 
than  touched  by  real  feeling.  It  is  easy  to  recog- 
nize conventional  signs  for  sentiment,  and  it  is  not 
difficult  for  the  ordinary  reader  to  persuade  him- 
self that  he  experiences  emotions  which  are  expli- 
citly set  forth  for  him.  Popular  taste  and  popular 
power  of  appreciation  are  not  inaccurately  repre- 
sented by  those  eminently  successful  journals  which 
in  one  column  give  the  fashions  and  receipts  for 
cake  and  in  the  next  detailed  directions  for  experi- 
encing all  the  sensations  of  culture.     Sentimental- 


CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE         157 

ity  is  always  more  instantly  and  more  widely  effec- 
tive than  sentiment.  Sentimentality  finds  a  ready 
response  from  the  fact  that  it  only  calls  upon  us 
to  seem,  while  sentiment  demands  that  for  the  time 
being  at  least  we  shall  be. 

It  is  necessary  here  to  say  that  I  do  not  wish  to 
be  misunderstood.  I  do  not  mean  in  the  least  to 
speak  with  scorn  or  contempt  of  the  lack  of  power 
justly  to  discriminate  and  to  appreciate  which  comes 
from  either  natural  disability  or  lack  of  opportuni- 
ties of  cultivation.  Narrowness  of  comprehension 
and  appreciation  is  a  misfortune,  but  it  is  not  ne- 
cessarily a  fault.  I  mean  only  to  point  out  that  it 
is  a  thing  to  be  outgrown  if  possible.  Of  the  pa- 
thos of  lives  which  are  denied  their  desire  in  this 
I  am  too  keenly  aware  to  speak  of  such  otherwise 
than  tenderly.  For  the  young  women  who  put 
their  sentiments  up  in  curl-papers  and  the  young 
men  who  wax  the  mustaches  of  their  minds  I 
have  no  patience  whatever ;  but  for  those  who  are 
seeking  that  which  seems  to  them  the  best,  even 
though  they  blunder  and  mistakenly  fall  prostrate 
before  Dagon,  the  great  god  of  the  Philistines,  it 
is  impossible  not  to  feel  sympathy  and  even  admir- 
ation. In  what  I  have  been  saying  of  the  falli- 
bility of  popular  opinion  I  have  not  meant  to  cast 
scorn  on  any  sincerity,  no  matter  where  it  is  to  be 
found;  but  merely  to  point  out  that  the  general 
voice  of  the  public,  even  when  sincere,  is  greatly  to 
be  distrusted. 

Whatever  contemporary  literature  may  be,  how- 
ever mistaken  may  be  the  popular  verdict,  and 


158  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

however  difficult  it  may  be  for  the  most  careful 
criticism  to  determine  what  is  of  lasting  and  what 
of  merely  ephemeral  merit,  the  fact  remains  that  it 
is  the  voice  of  our  own  time,  and  as  such  cannot 
be  disregarded.  To  devote  attention  exclusively 
to  the  classics  is  to  get  out  of  sympathy  with  the 
thought  of  our  own  generation.  It  is  idle  to  ex- 
pend energy  in  learning  how  to  live  if  one  does 
not  go  on  to  live.  The  true  use  of  literature  is  not 
to  make  dreamers ;  it  is  not  to  make  the  hold  upon 
actual  existence  less  firm.  In  the  classics  one  learns 
what  life  is,  but  one  lives  in  his  own  time.  It  fol- 
lows that  no  man  can  make  his  intellectual  life  full 
and  round  who  does  not  keep  intelligently  in  touch 
with  what  is  thought  and  what  is  written  by  the 
men  who  are  alive  and  working  under  the  same 
conditions. 

Contemporary  literature  is  the  expression  of  the 
convictions  of  the  time  in  which  it  is  written.  The 
race  having  advanced  so  far,  this  is  the  conclusion 
to  which  thinkers  have  come  in  regard  to  the  mean- 
ing of  life.  Contemporary  literature  is  like  news 
from  the  front  in  war-time.  It  is  sometimes  cheer- 
ing, sometimes  depressing,  often  enough  inaccurate, 
but  continually  exciting.  It  is  the  word  which 
comes  to  us  of  the  progress  of  the  eternal  combat 
against  the  unknown  forces  of  darkness  which  com- 
pass humanity  around.  There  are  many  men  who 
make  a  good  deal  of  parade  of  never  reading  books 
of  their  own  time.  They  are  sometimes  men  of  no 
inconsiderable  powers  of  intellect  and  of  much  cul- 
ti^'ation ;  but  it  is  hardly  possible  to  regard  them 


CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE         159 

as  of  greater  contemporary  interest  than  are  the 
mummies  of  the  Pharaohs.  They  may  be  excellent 
in  their  day  and  generation,  but  they  have  deliber- 
ately chosen  that  their  generation  shall  be  one  that 
is  gone  and  their  day  a  day  that  is  ended.  They 
may  be  interesting  relics,  but  relics  they  are.  It 
is  often  wise  to  wait  a  time  for  the  subsiding  of  the 
frenzy  of  applause  which  greets  a  book  that  is  clever 
or  merely  startling.  It  is  not  the  lover  of  literature 
who  reads  all  the  new  books  because  they  are  new, 
any  more  than  it  is  he  who  neglects  the  old  because 
they  are  old ;  but  if  we  are  alive  and  in  sympathy 
with  our  kind,  we  cannot  but  be  eager  to  know 
what  the  intellectual  world  is  thinking,  what  are 
the  fresh  theories  of  life,  born  of  added  experience, 
what  are  the  emotions  of  our  own  generation.  We 
cannot,  in  a  word,  be  in  tune  with  our  time  without 
being  interested  in  contemporary  literature. 

It  is  here  that  the  intellectual  character  of  a 
man  is  most  severely  tested.  Here  he  is  tried  as 
by  fire,  and  if  there  be  in  him  anything  of  sham 
or  any  flaw  in  his  cultivation  it  is  inevitably 
manifest.  It  is  easy  to  know  what  to  read  in  the 
classics ;  they  are  all  explicitly  labeled  by  the  crit- 
ics of  succeeding  generations.  When  it  comes  to 
contemporary  work  a  reader  is  forced  largely  to 
depend  upon  himself.  Here  he  must  judge  by  his 
individual  standards ;  and  here  he  both  must  and 
will  follow  his  own  inclinations.  It  is  not  always 
possible  for  a  man  accurately  to  appraise  his  men- 
tal advancement  by  the  classics  he  reads,  because 
his  choice  may  there  be  influenced  by  conventional 


160  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

rather  than  by  personal  valuation  ;  but  if  he  will 
compare  with  the  established  classics  the  books 
which  he  genuinely  likes  and  admires  among  the 
writings  of  his  own  time,  he  may  come  at  an  esti- 
mate of  his  mental  state  as  fair  as  a  man  is  ever 
likely  to  form  of  himself. 

It  is,  then,  easy  to  see  that  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  danger  in  dealing  with  current  work.  It  is 
necessary  to  be  in  sympathy  with  the  thought  of 
the  day,  but  it  is  only  too  common  to  pay  too 
dear  for  this.  It  is  extremely  hard,  for  instance, 
to  distinguish  between  genuine  literary  taste  and 
curiosity  when  writings  are  concerned  which  have 
the  fresh  and  lively  interest  which  attaches  to  those 
things  about  which  our  fellows  are  actually  talking 
and  thinking.  It  is  of  course  allowable  to  gratify 
a  healthy  curiosity,  but  it  is  well  to  recognize  that 
such  reading  is  hardly  likely  to  promote  mental 
growth.  There  is  no  law,  civil  or  moral,  against 
indulging  the  desire  to  know  what  is  in  any  one  of 
those  books  which  are  written  to  be  talked  about 
at  ladies'  luncheons ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that 
the  readers  who  give  their  time  to  this  unwhole- 
some stuff  would  be  doing  something  worse  if  they 
were  not  reading  it.  The  only  point  upon  which 
I  wish  to  insist  is  that  such  amusement  is  neither 
literary  nor  intellectual. 

There  is,  moreover,  the  danger  of  allowing  the 
mind  to  become  fixed  upon  the  accidental  instead 
of  the  permanent.  I  have  spoken  of  the  fact  that 
the  temporary  interest  of  a  book  may  be  so  great 
as  to  blind  the  reader  to  all  else.     When  "  Uncle 


CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE         161 

Tom*s  Cabin  "  was  new,  it  was  practically  impos- 
sible for  the  readers  of  that  day  to  see  in  it  any- 
thing but  a  fiery  tract  against  slavery.  To-day 
who  reads  "  Ground  Arms  "  without  being  chiefly 
impressed  with  its  arguments  against  war  ?  It  is 
as  controversial  documents  that  these  books  were 
written.  If  they  have  truth  to  life,  if  they  ade- 
quately express  human  emotion,  they  will  be  of 
permanent  value  after  this  temporary  interest  has 
passed.  The  danger  is  that  the  passing  interest, 
which  is  natural  and  proper  in  itself,  shall  blind  us 
to  false  sentiment,  to  unjust  views  of  life,  to  sham 
emotion.  We  are  constantly  led  to  forget  the  im- 
portant principle  that  books  of  our  own  time  must 
be  judged  by  the  standards  which  are  afforded  by 
the  books  which  are  of  all  time. 

There  has  never  been  a  time  when  self-possession 
and  sound  judgment  in  dealing  with  contemporary 
literature  were  more  important  than  they  are  to- 
day. The  immeasurably  prolific  press  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  is  like  a  fish-breeding  establishment 
where  minnows  are  born  by  the  million  a  minute. 
There  are  so  many  books  that  the  mind  becomes 
bewildered.  The  student  who  might  have  the 
strength  of  mind  to  form  an  intelligent  opinion  of 
five  books  is  utterly  incapable  of  doing  the  same 
by  five  thousand.  We  are  all  constantly  led  on 
to  read  too  many  things.  It  has  been  again  and 
again  remarked  that  our  grandfathers  were  better 
educated  than  their  grandsons  because  they  knew 
thoroughly  the  few  works  which  came  in  their  way. 
We  have  become  the  victims  of  over-reading  until 


162  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

the  modern  mind  seems  in  danger  of  being  destroyed 
by  literary  gluttony. 

It  is  well  in  dealing  with  contemporary  work  to 
be  especially  self -exacting  in  insisting  that  a  book  is 
not  to  be  read  once  which  is  not  to  be  read  a  second 
time.  This  may  seem  to  be  a  rule  made  merely  for 
the  sake  of  having  a  proper  theory,  yet  it  is  to  be 
taken  literally  and  observed  exactly.  It  is  true  that 
the  temptation  is  so  great  to  read  books  which  are 
talked  about,  that  we  are  all  likely  to  run  through 
a  good  many  things  which  we  know  to  be  really  un- 
worthy of  a  single  perusal,  and  of  course  to  go  over 
them  again  would  be  a  waste  of  more  time.  Where 
to  draw  the  line  between  the  permanent  and  the 
ephemeral  is  a  point  which  each  must  settle  for 
himself.  If,  on  the  whole,  it  seem  to  a  man  well 
to  pay  the  price  in  time  and  in  the  risk  of  forming 
bad  mental  habits,  it  is  his  right  to  do  this,  but  pay 
the  price  he  must  and  will. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  discuss  contemporary  lit- 
erature without  speaking  of  that  which  is  not  liter- 
ature, —  the  periodicals.  One  of  the  conditions  of 
the  present  time  which  most  strongly  affects  the 
relations  of  ordinary  readers  to  reading  in  general 
is  the  part  which  periodicals  of  one  sort  or  another 
play  in  modern  life.  The  newspaper  enters  so  inti- 
mately into  existence  to-day  that  no  man  can  escape 
it  if  he  would,  and  with  innumerable  readers  it  is 
practically  the  sole  mental  food.  It  is  hardly  neces- 
sary to  say  that  there  is  no  more  relation  between 
the  newspaper  and  literature  than  there  would  be 


CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE         163 

between  two  persons  because  they  both  wear  hats. 
Both  books  and  journals  are  expressed  in  printed 
words,  and  that  is  about  all  that  there  is  in  com- 
mon. It  is  necessary  to  use  the  daily  paper,  but  its 
office  is  chiefly  a  mechanical  one.  It  is  connected 
with  the  purely  material  side  of  life.  This  is  not  a 
fault,  any  more  than  it  is  the  fault  of  a  spade  that 
it  is  employed  to  dig  the  earth  instead  of  being  used 
to  serve  food  with.  It  is  not  the  function  of  the 
newspapers  to  minister  to  the  intellect  or  the  imagi- 
nation in  any  high  sense.  They  fulfill  their  mis- 
sion when  they  are  clean  and  reliable  in  material 
affairs.  What  is  beyond  this  is  a  pretense  at  lit- 
erature under  impossible  conditions,  assumed  to 
beguile  the  unwary,  and  harmless  or  vicious,  ac- 
cording to  circumstances.  It  is  seen  at  its  worst  in 
the  Sunday  editions,  with  their  sheets  as  many 

—  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strow  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa. 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  for  the  faithful  reader  of 
the  Sunday  newspaper  there  is  no  intellectual  sal- 
vation. Like  the  Prodigal  Son,  he  is  fain  to  fill 
his  belly  with  the  husks  which  the  swine  do  eat, 
and  he  has  not  the  grace  even  to  long  for  the  more 
dignified  diet  of  fatted  calf. 

The  newspaper  habit  is  pretty  generally  recog- 
nized as  demoralizing,  and  in  so  far  it  may  be  in  a 
literary  point  of  view  less  dangerous  than  the  mag- 
azine habit.  The  latter  is  often  accompanied  by  a 
self-righteous  conviction  that  it  is  a  virtue.  There 
is  a  class  who  take  on  airs  of  being  of  the  intellec- 


164  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

tual  elect  on  the  strength  of  reading  all  the  leading 
magazines ;  who  are  as  proud  of  having  four  serials 
in  hand  at  once  as  is  a  society  belle  of  being  able 
to  drive  as  many  horses ;  who  look  with  a  sort  of 
pitying  contempt  upon  persons  so  old-fashioned  as 
to  neglect  the  magazines  in  favor  of  books,  and  who 
in  general  are  as  proudly  patronizing  in  their  atti- 
tude toward  literature  as  they  are  innocent  of  any 
connection  with  it.  This  is  worse  than  too  great 
a  fondness  for  journalism,  and  of  course  this  is  an 
extreme  type ;  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  at  their 
best  the  magazines  represent  mental  dissipation. 

It  is  true  that  genuine  literature  is  often  pub- 
lished in  periodicals  ;  and  there  are  many  editors 
who  deeply  regret  that  the  public  will  not  allow 
them  to  print  a  great  deal  more.  As  things  are, 
real  literature  in  the  magazines  is  the  exception 
rather  than  the  rule.  The  general  standard  of 
magazine  excellence  is  the  taste  of  the  intellectually 
nouveaux  riches  —  for  persons  who  have  entered 
upon  an  intellectual  heritage  which  they  are  not 
fitted  rightly  to  understand  or  employ  are  as  com- 
mon as  those  who  come  to  material  wealth  under 
the  same  conditions.  It  is  to  this  class,  which  is 
one  of  the  most  numerous,  and  still  more  one  of  the 
most  conspicuous  in  our  present  civilization,  that 
most  of  the  magazines  address  themselves.  The 
genuinely  cultivated  reader  finds  in  the  monthlies 
many  papers  which  he  looks  through  as  he  look? 
through  the  newspaper,  for  the  sake  of  information, 
and  less  often  he  comes  upon  imaginative  work. 
The  serials  which  are  worth  reading  at  all  are  worthy 


CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE         165 

of  being  read  as  a  whole,  and  not  in  the  distorted  and 
distorting  fashion  of  so  many  words  a  month,  ac- 
cording to  the  size  of  the  page  of  a  particular  peri- 
odical. Heading  a  serial  is  like  plucking  a  rose  petal 
by  petal ;  the  whole  of  the  flower  may  be  gathered, 
but  its  condition  is  little  likely  to  be  satisfactory. 
While  the  magazines,  moreover,  are  not  to  be 
looked  to  for  a  great  deal  of  literature  of  lasting 
value,  they  not  only  encourage  the  habit  of  reading 
indifferent  imitations,  but  they  foster  a  dangerous 
and  demoralizing  inability  to  fix  the  attention  for 
any  length  of  time.  The  magazine-mind  is  a  thing 
of  shreds  and  patches  at  best ;  incapable  of  grasp- 
ing as  a  whole  any  extended  work.  Literature 
holds  the  mirror  up  to  nature,  but  the  magazine  is 
apt  to  show  the  world  through  a  toy  multiplying- 
glass,  which  gives  to  the  eye  a  hundred  minute  and 
distorted  images. 

It  may  seem  that  I  do  scant  justice  to  the  mag- 
azines. It  is  certainly  to  be  remembered  that  in 
the  less  thickly  settled  parts  of  this  great  incho- 
ate country,  where  libraries  are  not,  the  magazine 
is  often  a  comfort  and  even  an  inspiration.  It  is 
to  be  acknowledged  that,  with  the  enormous  mass 
of  half  -  educated  but  often  earnest  and  sincere 
souls,  the  periodical  has  done  and  may  still  do  a 
great  deal  of  good.  The  child  must  play  with  toys 
before  it  is  fitted  to  grasp  the  tools  of  handicraft, 
and  enjoyment  of  the  chromo  may  be  a  healthy 
and  legitimate  stage  on  the  way  to  an  appreciation 
of  the  masters  of  painting.  It  is  not  a  reproach  to 
call  a  man  a  toy-vender  or  a  maker  of  chromes; 


166  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

nor  do  I  see  that  what  I  have  been  saying  is  to  be 
interpreted  as  reflecting  on  the  makers  of  periodi- 
cals. It  must  be  remembered  that  the  publication 
of  a  magazine  is  a  business  enterprise  in  the  same 
sense  that  the  selling  of  carpets  or  calicoes  is  a 
business  enterprise.  The  manufacturer  of  maga- 
zines must  please  the  general  public  with  what  he 
prints,  as  the  manufacturer  must  satisfy  the  ordi- 
nary buyer  by  the  designs  of  his  fabrics.  In  either 
case  it  is  the  taste  of  the  intellectual  bourgeoisie 
which  is  the  standard  of  success.  The  maker  of 
periodicals  can  no  more  afford  to  appeal  to  the 
taste  of  the  cultivated  few  than  can  the  thrifty 
maker  of  stuffs.  What  is  sold  in  open  market 
must  be  adapted  to  the  demands  of  the  open  mar- 
ket. It  is  simply  legitimate  business  prudence 
which  keeps  most  magazines  from  attempting  to 
print  literature.  They  publish,  as  a  rule,  all  the 
literature  that  the  public  will  have,  —  modified, 
unhappily,  by  the  difficulty  of  getting  it  to  pub- 
lish in  a  world  where  literature  cannot  be  made  to 
order.  A  book,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  is  a  ven- 
ture ;  a  magazine  is  an  enterprise.  The  periodical 
must  pay  or  it  must  be  discontinued. 

The  moral  of  the  whole  matter  is  that  the  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  accept  magazines  for  what  they 
are  ;  neither  to  neglect  them  completely,  nor  to 
give  to  them  that  abundant  or  exclusive  attention 
which  they  cannot  even  aim  under  existing  condi- 
tions at  deserving.  They  may  easily  be  dangerous 
intellectual  snares  ;  but  the  wise  student  will  often 
find  them  enjoyable,  and  sometimes  useful. 


XIII 

NEW   BOOKS   AND   OLD 

The  quality  of  "  timeliness  "  is  one  of  the  things 
which  makes  it  especially  difficult  to  distinguish 
among  new  books.  There  is  in  this  day  an  ever 
increasing  tendency  to  treat  all  topics  of  popular 
discussion  in  ways  which  profess  to  be  imaginative, 
and  especially  in  the  narrative  form.  The  novel 
with  a  theory  and  the  poem  with  a  purpose  are  so 
enveloped  with  the  glamour  of  immediate  interest 
that  they  appear  to  be  of  an  importance  far  be- 
yond that  which  belongs  to  their  real  merit.  Curi- 
osity to  know  what  these  books  have  to  say  upon 
the  questions  which  most  deeply  interest  or  most 
vitally  affect  humanity  is  as  natural  as  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  resist.  The  desire  to  see  what  a  book 
which  is  talked  about  is  like  is  doubly  hard  to 
overcome  when  it  is  so  easily  excused  under  the 
pretense  of  gaining  light  on  important  questions. 
Time  seems  to  be  proving,  however,  that  the 
amount  of  noise  made  over  these  theory-mongering 
romances  is  pretty  nearly  in  adverse  ratio  to  their 
worth.  We  are  told  in  Scripture  that  wisdom 
calleth  in  the  streets,  and  no  man  regardeth,  but 
the  opposite  seems  to  be  true  of  the  clamors  of 
error.     The  very  vehemence  of  these  books  is  the 


168  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

quality  which  secures  to  them  attention ;  and  it  is 
impossible  wholly  to  ignore  them,  and  yet  to  keep 
in  touch  with  the  time. 

It  is  the  more  difficult  to  evade  pretentious  and 
noisily  worthless  writings  because  of  the  great  in- 
genuity of  the  advertising  devices  which  force  them 
upon  the  attention.  The  student  of  genuine  litera- 
ture naturally  does  not  allow  himself  to  be  led  by 
these,  no  matter  how  persuasive  they  may  be.  The 
man  who  bases  his  choice  of  books  upon  the  ad- 
vertisements is  like  him  who  regulates  the  health 
of  his  family  by  the  advice  of  a  patent-medicine 
almanac.  It  is  not  easy,  however,  to  escape  en- 
tirely from  the  influence  of  advertising.  If  we  have 
seen  a  book  talked  about  in  print,  been  confronted 
with  its  title  on  a  dazzling  poster,  if  it  has  been 
recommended  by  the  chief  prize-fighter  in  the  land, 
or  damned  by  the  admiration  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  we 
are  any  of  us  inclined  to  read  it,  just  to  see  what 
it  is  like.  The  ways  by  which  new  publications 
are  insinuated  upon  the  attention  are,  too,  so  im- 
palpably  effective,  so  cunningly  unexpected,  that 
we  take  our  opinion  from  them  without  realizing 
that  we  have  not  originated  it.  The  inspiration 
and  stress  of  soul  which  in  Greece  begot  art,  bring 
forth  in  our  day  advertising,  and  no  man  can 
wholly  escape  its  influence. 

Innumerable  are  the  methods  by  which  authors, 
whose  sole  claim  to  genius  is  this  skill  in  advertis- 
ing, keep  themselves  and  their  books  before  the 
public.  Eccentricities  of  manner  and  of  matter 
are  so  varied  as  to  provoke  wonder  that  mental 


NEW  BOOKS  AND  OLD  169 

fertility  of  resource  so  remarkable  should  not  pro- 
duce results  really  great  and  lasting.  Some  writ- 
ers claim  to  be  founders  of  schools,  and  talk  a 
good  deal  about  their  "  modernity,"  a  word  which 
really  means  stale  sensationalism  revamped ;  others 
insist  in  season  and  out  of  season  that  they  have 
discovered  the  only  true  theory  of  art,  and  that 
literature  is  only  possible  upon  the  lines  which  they 
lay  down.  It  is  unfortunately  to  be  observed  that 
the  theory  invariably  follows  the  practice ;  that 
they  first  produce  queer  books,  and  then  formulate 
a  theory  which  excuses  them.  Still  others  call  at- 
tention to  themselves  by  a  variety  of  artifices,  from 
walking  down  Piccadilly  mooning  over  a  sunflower 
to  driving  through  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  in  brocade 
coat,  rose-pink  hat,  and  cravat  of  gold-lace,  like 
Barbey  d'Aurevilly.  No  man  ever  produced  good 
art  who  worked  to  advertise  himself,  and  fortu- 
nately the  day  of  these  charlatans  is  usually  short. 
I  have  spoken  in  another  place  of  the  danger  of 
confounding  an  author  and  his  work ;  and  of  course 
this  peril  is  especially  great  in  the  case  of  writers 
of  our  own  time.  I  may  add  that  the  parading 
of  authors  is  a  vice  especially  prevalent  in  the 
nineteenth  century.  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter  advertises 
herself,  and  incidentally  the  celebrities  whom  she 
captures,  and  the  publishers  not  infrequently  show 
a  disposition  to  promote  the  folly  for  the  sake  of 
their  balance-sheet.  If  Apollo  and  the  Muses  re- 
turned to  earth  they  would  be  bidden  instantly  to 
one  of  Mrs.  Hunter's  Saturday  five  o'cloeks,  and 
a  list  of  the  distinguished  guests  would  be  in  the 


170  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

Sunday  papers.  That  is  what  many  understand  by 
the  encouragement  of  literature. 

Another  method  of  securing  notice,  which  is 
practiced  by  not  a  few  latter-day  writers,  is  that 
of  claiming  startling  originality.  Many  of  the 
authors  who  are  attempting  to  take  the  kingdom 
of  literary  distinction  by  violence  lay  great  stress 
upon  the  complete  novelty  of  their  views  or  their 
emotions.  Of  these,  it  is  perhaps  sufficient  to  say 
that  the  men  who  are  genuine  insist  that  what 
they  say  is  true,  not  that  they  are  the  first  to  say 
it.  In  all  art  that  is  of  value  the  end  sought  is 
the  work  and  not  the  worker.  Perhaps  most  vi- 
cious of  all  these  self -advertisers  are  those  who  force 
themselves  into  notice  by  thrusting  forward  what- 
ever the  common  consent  of  mankind  has  hitherto 
kept  concealed.  It  is  chiefly  to  France  that  we 
owe  this  development  of  recent  literature  so-called. 
If  a  French  writer  wishes  to  be  effective,  it  is  ap- 
parently his  instant  instinct  to  be  indecent.  The 
trick  is  an  easy  one.  It  is  as  if  the  belle  who 
finds  herself  a  wall-flower  at  a  ball  should  begin 
loudly  to  swear.  She  would  be  at  once  the  centre 
of  observation. 

Of  books  of  these  various  classes  Max  Nordau 
has  made  a  dismal  list  in  "  Degeneration,"  a  book 
itself  discouragingly  bulky,  discouragingly  opinion- 
ated, discouragingly  prejudiced  and  illogical,  and 
yet  not  without  much  rightness  both  of  perception 
and  intention.  He  says  of  the  books  most  popular 
with  that  portion  of  society  which  is  most  in  evi- 
dence, that  they 


NEW  BOOKS  AND  OLD  171 

diffuse  a  curious  perfume,  yielding  distinguishable 
odors  of  incense,  eau  de  Lubin,  and  refuse,  one  or  the 
other  preponderating  alternately.  .  .  .  Books  treat- 
ing of  the  relations  of  the  sexes,  with  no  matter  how 
little  reserve,  seem  too  dully  moral.  Elegant  titil- 
lation  only  begins  where  normal  sexual  relations  leave 
off.  .  .  .  Ghost-stories  are  very  popular,  but  they 
must  come  on  in  scientific  disguise,  as  hypnotism,  tel- 
epathy, or  somnambulism.  So  are  marionette  plays, 
in  which  seemingly  naive  but  knowing  rogues  make 
used-up  old  ballad  dummies  babble  like  babies  or 
idiots.  So  are  esoteric  novels  in  which  the  author 
hints  that  he  could  say  a  deal  about  magic,  fakir- 
ism,  kabbala,  astrology,  and  other  white  and  black  arts 
if  he  chose.  Readers  intoxicate  themselves  in  the 
hazy  word-sequences  of  symbolic  poetry.  Ibsen  de- 
thrones Goethe ;  Maeterlinck  ranks  with  Shakespeare ; 
Neitzsche  is  pronounced  by  German  and  even  French 
critics  to  be  the  leading  German  writer  of  the  day; 
the  "Kreutzer  Sonata"  is  the  Bible  of  ladies,  who  are 
amateurs  in  love,  but  bereft  of  lovers ;  dainty  gentle- 
men find  the  street  ballads  and  gaol-bird  songs  of  Jules 
Jouy,  Bruant,  MacNab,  and  Xanroff  very  distingue 
on  account  of  "the  warm  sympathy  pulsing  in  them," 
as  the  phrase  runs ;  and  society  persons,  whose  creed 
is  limited  to  baccarat  and  the  money  market,  make 
pilgrimages  to  the  Oberammergau  Passion-Play,  and 
wipe  away  a  tear  over  Paul  Verlaine's  invocations  to 
the  Virgin. —  Degeneration,  ii. 

This  is  a  picture  true  of  only  a  limited  section 
of  modern  society,  a  section,  moreover,  much  smaller 
in  America  than  abroad.  Common  sense  and  a 
sense  of  humor  save  Americans  from  many  of  the 
extravagances  to  be  observed  across  the  ocean. 
There  are  too  many  fools,  however,  even  in  this 
country.     To  secure  immediate  success  with  these 


172  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

readers  a  writer  need  do  nothing  more  than  to  pro- 
duce erotic  eccentricities.  There  are  many  intel- 
lectually restless  persons  who  suppose  themselves 
to  be  advancing  in  culture  when  they  are  poring 
over  the  fantastic  imbecilities  of  Maeterlinck,  or 
the  nerve  -  rasping  unreason  of  Ibsen;  when  they 
are  sailing  aloft  on  the  hot-air  balloons  of  Tolstoi's 
extravagant  theories,  or  wallowing  in  the  blackest 
mud  of  Parisian  slums  with  Zola.  Dull  and  jaded 
minds  find  in  these  things  an  excitement,  as  the 
jaded  palate  finds  stimulation  in  the  sting  of  fiery 
sauces.  There  are  others,  too,  who  believe  that 
these  books  are  great  because  they  are  so  impres- 
sive. The  unreflective  reader  measures  the  value 
of  a  book  not  by  its  permanent  qualities  but  by  its 
instantaneous  effect,  and  an  instantaneous  effect  is 
very  apt  to  be  simple  sensationalism. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  see  the  fallacy  of  these  amaz- 
ing books.  A  blackguard  declaiming  profanely 
and  obscenely  in  a  drawing-room  can  produce  in 
five  minutes  more  sensation  than  a  sage  discours- 
ing learnedly,  delightfully,  and  profoundly  could 
cause  in  years.  Because  a  book  makes  the  reader 
cringe  it  by  no  means  follows  that  the  author  is  a 
genius.  In  literature  any  writer  of  ordinary  clev- 
erness may  gain  notoriety  if  he  is  willing  to  be  ec- 
centric enough,  extravagant  enough,  or  indecent 
enough.  An  ass  braying  attracts  more  attention 
than  an  oriole  singing.  The  street  musician,  scrap- 
ing a  foundling  fiddle,  vilely  out  of  tune,  compels 
notice  ;  but  the  master,  freeing  the  ecstasy  en- 
chanted in  the  bosom  of  a  violin  of  royal  lineage, 


NEW  BOOKS  AND  OLD  173 

touches   and  transports.     All   standards  are  con- 
founded if  notoriety  means  excellence. 

There  is  a  sentence  in  one  of  the  enticing  and 
stimulating  essays  of  James  Russell  Lowell  which 
is  applicable  to  these  writers  who  gain  reputation 
by  setting  on  edge  the  reader's  teeth. 

There  is  no  work  of  genius  which  has  not  been  the 
delight  of  mankind.  —  Housseau  and  the  Sentimental- 


Notice:  the  delight  of  mankind;  not  the  sensa- 
tion, the  pastime,  the  amazement,  the  horror,  or  the 
scandal  of  mankind,  —  but  the  delight.  This  is  a 
wise  test  by  which  to  try  a  good  deal  of  the  best 
advertised  literature  of  the  present  day.  Do  not 
ask  whether  the  talked-of  book  startles,  amuses, 
shocks,  or  even  arouses  simply ;  but  inquire,  if 
you  care  to  estimate  its  literary  value,  whether  it 
delights. 

It  is  necessary,  of  course,  to  understand  that  Mr. 
Lowell  uses  the  word  here  in  its  broad  significa- 
tion. He  means  more  than  the  simple  pleasure 
of  smooth  and  sugary  things.  He  means  the  de- 
light of  tragedy  as  well  as  of  comedy  ;  of  "  King 
Lear  "  and  "  Othello  "  as  well  as  of  "  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  ; "  but  he  does  not  mean  the  nerve- 
torture  of  "  Ghosts "  or  the  mental  nausea  of 
"L'Assommoir."  By  delight  he  means  that  per- 
suasion which  is  an  essential  quality  of  all  genuine 
art.  The  writer  who  makes  his  readers  shrink  and 
quiver  may  produce  a  transient  sensation.  His 
notoriety  is  noisily  proclaimed  by  the  trumpets  of 


174  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

to-day ;  but  the  brazen  voice  of  to-morrow  will  as 
lustily  roar  other  fleeting  successes,  and  all  alike 
be  forgotten  in  a  night. 

I  insisted  in  the  first  of  these  talks  upon  the 
principle  that  good  art  is  "  human  and  wholesome 
and  sane."  We  need  to  keep  these  characteris- 
tics constantly  in  mind ;  and  to  make  them  practi- 
cal tests  of  the  literature  upon  which  we  feed  our 
minds  and  our  imaginations.  We  are  greatly  in 
need  of  some  sort  of  an  artistic  quarantine.  Lit- 
erature should  not  be  the  carrier  of  mental  or 
emotional  contagion.  A  work  which  swarms  with 
mental  and  moral  microbes  should  be  as  ruthlessly 
disinfected  by  fire  as  if  it  were  a  garment  contami- 
nated with  the  germs  of  fever  or  cholera.  It  is 
manifestly  impossible  that  this  shall  be  done,  how- 
ever, in  the  present  state  of  society  ;  and  it  follows 
that  each  reader  must  be  his  own  health-board  in 
the  choice  of  books. 

The  practical  question  which  instantly  arises  is 
how  one  is  to  know  good  books  from  bad  until  one 
has  read  them.  How  to  distinguish  between  what 
is  worthy  of  attention  and  what  is  ephemeral  trash 
has  perplexed  many  a  sincere  and  earnest  student. 
This  is  a  duty  which  should  devolve  largely  upon 
trained  critics,  but  unhappily  criticism  is  not  to- 
day in  a  condition  which  makes  it  reliable  or  prac- 
tically of  very  great  assistance  where  recent  publi- 
cations are  concerned.  The  reader  is  left  to  his 
own  judgment  in  choosing  among  writings  hot  from 
the  press.  Fortunately  the  task  of  discriminating 
is  not  impossible.     It  is  even  far  less  difficult  than 


NEW  BOOKS  AND  OLD  175 

it  at  firet  appears.  The  reader  is  seldom  without 
a  pretty  clear  idea  o£  the  character  of  notorious 
books  before  he  touches  them.  Where  the  multi- 
tude of  publications  is  so  great,  the  very  means  of 
advertising  which  are  necessary  to  bring  them  into 
notice  show  what  they  are.  Even  should  a  man 
make  it  a  rule  to  read  nothing  until  he  has  a  defi- 
nite estimate  of  its  merit,  he  will  find  in  the  end 
that  he  has  lost  little.  For  any  purposes  of  the 
cultivation  of  the  mind  or  the  imagination  the 
book  which  is  good  to  read  to-day  is  good  to  read 
to-morrow,  so  that  there  is  not  the  haste  about 
reading  a  real  book  that  there  is  in  getting  through 
the  morning  paper,  which  becomes  obsolete  by  noon. 
When  one  considers,  too,  how  small  a  portion  of 
the  volumes  published  it  is  possible  to  have  time 
for,  and  how  important  it  is  to  make  the  most  of 
life  by  having  these  of  the  best,  one  realizes  that 
it  is  worth  while  to  take  a  good  deal  of  trouble, 
and  if  need  be  to  sacrifice  the  superficial  enjoy- 
ment of  keeping  in  the  front  rank  of  the  mad  mob 
of  sensation  seekers  whose  only  idea  of  literary 
merit  is  noise  and  novelty.  It  is  a  trivial  and  silly 
vanity  which  is  unhappy  because  somebody  —  or 
because  everybody  —  has  read  new  books  first. 

There  is,  moreover,  nothing  more  stupid  than 
the  attempt  to  deceive  ourselves,  —  especially  if  the 
attempt  succeeds.  Of  all  forms  of  lying  this  is  at 
once  the  most  demoralizing  and  the  most  utterly 
useless.  If  we  read  poor  books  from  puerile  or 
unworthy  motives,  let  us  at  least  be  frank  about  it 
in  our  own  minds.     If  we  have  taken  up  with  un- 


176  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

wholesome  writers  from  idle  curiosity,  or,  worse, 
from  prurient  hankering  after  uncleanness,  what 
do  we  gain  by  assuring  ourselves  that  we  did  not 
know  what  we  were  doing,  or  by  pretending  that 
we  have  unwillingly  been  following  out  a  line  of 
scientific  investigation?  Fine  theories  make  but 
flimsy  coverings  for  unhealthy  desires. 

Of  course  this  whole  matter  lies  within  the  domain 
of  individual  liberty  and  individual  responsibility. 
The  use  or  the  abuse  of  reading  is  determined  by 
each  man  for  himself.  To  gloat  over  scorbutic  prose 
and  lubricious  poetry,  to  fritter  the  attention  upon 
the  endless  repetition  of  numberless  insignificant 
details,  to  fix  the  mind  upon  phonographic  reports 
of  the  meaningless  conversations  of  meaningless 
characters,  to  lose  rational  consciousness  in  the  con- 
fusion of  verbal  eccentricities  which  dazzle  by  the 
cunning  with  which  words  are  prevented  from  con- 
veying intelligence,  —  and  the  writings  of  to-day 
afford  ample  opportunity  for  doing  all  of  these 
things !  —  is  within  the  choice  of  every  reader.  It  is 
to  be  remembered,  however,  that  no  excuse  evades 
the  consequence.  He  who  wastes  life  finds  him- 
self bankrupt,  and  there  is  no  redress. 

Always  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  the  classics 
afford  us  the  means  of  measuring  the  worth  of 
what  we  read.  He  who  pauses  to  consider  a  little 
will  see  at  once  something  of  what  is  meant  by 
this.  He  will  realize  the  wide  difference  there  is 
between  familiarity  with  the  permanent  literature 
of  the  world  and  acquaintance  with  the  most  sen- 
sational and  widely  discussed  books  of  to-day.     A 


NEW  BOOKS  AND  OLD  177 

man  may  be  a  virtuous  citizen  and  a  good  husband 
and  father,  with  intelligence  in  his  business  and 
common  sense  in  the  affairs  of  life,  and  yet  be 
utterly  ignorant  of  how  Achilles  put  the  golden 
tress  into  the  hand  of  dead  Patroclus,  or  of  the 
stratagem  by  which  Iphigenia  saved  the  life  of 
Orestes  at  Tauris,  or  of  the  love  of  Palamon  and 
Arcite  for  Emilie  the  fair,  or  of  whom  Gudrun 
married  and  whom  she  loved,,  or  of  how  Sancho 
Panza  governed  his  island,  or  of  the  ill-fated  loves 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  or  of  the  agony  of  Othello, 
or  of  Hamlet,  or  Lear,  or  Perdita,  or  Portia.  The 
knowledge  of  none  of  these  is  necessary  to  mate- 
rial existence,  and  it  is  possible  to  make  a  creditable 
figure  in  the  world  without  it.  Yet  we  are  all  con- 
scious that  the  man  who  is  not  aware  of  these  cre- 
ations which  are  so  much  more  real  than  the  major- 
ity of  the  personages  that  stalk  puppet-like  across 
the  pages  of  history,  has  missed  something  of  which 
the  loss  makes  his  life  definitely  poorer.  We  can- 
not but  feel  the  enrichment  of  mind  and  feeling 
which  results  from  our  having  in  classic  pages 
made  the  acquaintance  with  these  gracious  beings 
and  shared  their  adventures  and  their  emotions. 
Suppose  that  the  books  most  noisily  lauded  to-day 
were  to  be  tried  by  the  same  test.  Is  a  man  better 
for  knowing  with  Zola  all  the  diseased  genealogy  of 
the  Rougon-Macquart  family,  morbid,  criminal,  and 
foul  ?  Is  not  the  mind  cleaner  and  saner  if  it  has 
never  been  opened  to  the  entertainment  of  Pozny- 
scheff,  Hedda  Gabler,  Dr.  Rank,  Mademoiselle  de 
Maupin,  Oswald  Alving,  or  any  of  this  unclean 


178  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

tribe?  It  is  not  that  a  strong  or  well-developed 
man  wiU  ignore  the  crime  or  the  criminals  of  the 
world ;  but  it  is  not  necessary  to  gloat  over  either. 
It  is  not  difficult  to  learn  all  that  it  is  necessary  to 
know  about  yellow  fever,  cholera,  or  leprosy,  with- 
out passing  days  and  nights  in  the  pest  hospitals. 

These  unwholesome  books,  however,  are  part  of 
the  intellectual  history  of  our  time.  He  who  would 
keep  abreast  of  modern  thought  and  of  life  as  it 
is  to-day,  we  are  constantly  reminded,  must  take 
account  of  the  writers  who  are  most  loudly  lauded. 
Goethe  has  said :  "  It  is  in  her  monstrosities  that 
nature  reveals  herself ; "  and  the  same  is  measur- 
ably true  in  the  intellectual  world.  The  madness, 
the  eccentricity,  the  indecencies  of  these  books, 
are  so  many  indications  by  which  certain  tendencies 
of  the  period  betray  themselves.  It  seems  to  me, 
however,  that  this  is  a  consideration  to  which  it  is 
extremely  easy  to  give  too  much  weight.  To  mis- 
take this  noisy  and  morbid  class  of  books,  these 
self-parading  and  sensational  authors,  for  the  most 
significant  signs  of  the  intellectual  condition  of  the 
time  is  like  mistaking  a  drum-major  for  the  general, 
because  the  drum-major  is  most  conspicuous  and 
always  to  the  fore,  —  except  in  action.  The  mind 
is  nourished  and  broadened,  moreover,  by  the  study 
of  sanity.  It  is  the  place  of  the  physician  to  con- 
cern himself  with  disease ;  but  as  medical  treatises 
are  dangerous  in  the  hands  of  laymen,  so  are  works 
of  morbid  psychology  in  the  hands  of  the  ordinary 
reader. 

Fortunately  contemporary  literature  is  not  con- 


NEW  BOOKS  AND  OLD  179 

fined  to  books  of  the  unwholesome  sort,  greatly  as 
these  are  in  evidence.  We  have  a  real  literature 
as  well  as  a  false  one.  Time  moves  so  swiftly  that 
we  have  begun  to  regard  the  works  of  Thackeray 
and  Dickens  and  Hawthorne,  and  almost  of  Brown- 
ing and  Tennyson,  as  among  the  classics.  They 
are  so,  however,  by  evident  merit  rather  than  by 
age,  and  have  not  been  in  existence  long  enough  to 
receive  the  suffrages  of  generations.  The  names 
of  these  authors  remind  us  how  many  books  have 
been  written  in  our  time  which  endure  trium- 
phantly all  tests  that  have  been  proposed ;  books  to 
miss  the  knowledge  of  which  is  to  lose  the  opportu- 
nity of  making  life  richer.  Certainly  we  should 
be  emotionally  and  spiritually  poorer  without  the 
story  of  Hester  Prynne  and  Arthur  Dimmesdale, 
between  whom  the  Scarlet  Letter  glowed  bale- 
fully  ;  without  Hilda  in  her  tower  and  poor  Mir 
iam  bereft  of  her  Faun  below.  To  have  failed  to 
share  the  Fezziwigs'  ball,  or  the  trial  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick for  breach  of  promise ;  to  have  lived  without 
knowing  the  inimitable  Sam  Weller  and  the  juicy 
Micawbers,  the  amiable  Quilp  and  the  elegant 
Mrs.  Skewton,  philanthropic  Mrs.  Jellyby  and  airy 
Harold  Skimpole,  is  to  have  failed  of  acquaintances 
that  would  have  brightened  existence  ;  to  be  igno- 
rant of  Becky  Sharp  and  Colonel  Newcome,  of 
Arthur  Pendennis  and  George  Warrington,  of  Be- 
atrix and  Colonel  Esmond,  is  to  have  neglected 
one  of  the  blessings,  and  not  of  the  lesser  bless- 
ings either.  No  man  is  without  a  permanent  and 
tangible  gain  who  has  comprehendingly  read  Emer 


180  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

son's  "  Rhodora,"  or  the  "  Threnody,"  or  *'  Days," 
or  "  The  Problem."  Whoever  has  been  sympa- 
thetically through  the  "  Idylls  of  the  King  "  not 
only  experienced  a  long  delight  but  has  gained  a 
fresh  ideal;  while  to  have  gone  to  the  heart  of 
"  The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  —  that  most  colossal 
tour-de-force  in  all  literature,  —  to  have  heard  the 
tender  confidences  of  dying  Pompilia,  the  anguished 
confession  of  Caponsacchi,  the  noble  soliloquy  of 
the  Pope,  is  to  have  lived  through  a  spiritual  and 
an  emotional  experience  of  worth  incalculable.  In 
the  age  of  Thackeray  and  Dickens,  of  Hawthorne 
and  Emerson  and  Tennyson  and  Browning,  we 
cannot  complain  that  there  is  any  lack  of  genuine 
literature. 

Nor  are  we  obliged  to  keep  to  what  seems  to 
some  a  high  and  breathless  altitude  of  reading. 
There  are  many  readers  who  are  of  so  little  natural 
imagination,  or  who  have  cultivated  it  so  little, 
that  it  is  a  conscious  and  often  a  fatiguing  effort  to 
keep  to  the  mood  of  these  greater  authors.  Beside 
these  works  to  the  keen  enjoyment  of  which  imagi- 
nation is  necessary,  there  are  others  which  are  genu- 
ine without  being  of  so  high  rank.  It  is  certainly  on 
the  whole  a  misfortune  that  one  should  be  deprived 
of  a  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Proudie  and  the  whole 
clerical  circle  in  which  she  moved,  and  especially 
of  Mr.  Harding,  the  delightful  "  Warden ;  "  he  is 
surely  to  be  pitied  who  has  not  read  the  story  of 
"  Silas  Marner,"  who  does  not  feel  friendly  and 
intimate  with  shrewd  and  epigrammatic  Mrs.  Poy- 
ser,  with  spiritual  Dinah  Morris,  and  with  Maggie 


NEW  BOOKS  AND  OLD  181 

Tulllver  and  her  family.  No  intelligent  reader 
can  afford  to  have  passed  by  in  neglect  the  pleas- 
ant sweetness  of  Longfellow  or  the  wholesome 
soundness  of  Whittier,  the  mystic  sensuousness  of 
Rossetti  or  the  volujDtuous  melodiousness  of  Swin- 
burne. 

It  is  manifestly  impossible  to  enumerate  all  the 
authors  who  illustrate  the  richness  of  the  latter 
half  of  the  nineteenth  century ;  but  there  are  those 
of  the  living  who  cannot  be  passed  in  silence.  To 
deal  with  those  who  are  writing  to-day  is  mani- 
festly difficult,  but  as  I  merely  claim  to  cite  illus- 
trations no  fault  can  justly  be  found  with  omis- 
sions. Naturally  Meredith  and  Hardy  come  first 
to  mind.  He  who  has  read  that  exquisite  chapter 
in  "The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel"  which  tells 
of  the  meeting  of  Richard  and  Lucy  in  the  mead- 
ows by  the  river  has  in  memory  a  gracious  posses- 
sion for  the  rest  of  his  days.  Who  can  recall  from 
"  The  Return  of  the  Native  "  the  noonday  visit  of 
Mrs.  Yeobright  to  the  house  of  her  son  and  her 
journey  to  death  back  over  Egdon  Heath,  without  a 
heart-deep  thrill  ?  What  sympathetic  reader  fails 
to  recognize  that  he  is  mentally  and  imaginatively 
richer  for  the  honest  little  reddle-man,  Diggory 
Venn,  for  sturdy  Gabriel  Oak,  for  the  delightful 
clowns  of  "  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree  "  and  "  Far 
from  the  Madding  Crowd,"  or  for  ill-starred  Tess 
when  on  that  dewy  morning  she  had  the  misfortune 
to  touch  the  caddish  heart  of  Angel  Clare  ?  To 
have  failed  to  read  and  to  reread  Stevenson,  —  for 
one  thinks  of  Stevenson  as  still  of  the  living,  — to 


182  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

have  passed  Kipling  by,  is  to  have  neglected  one  of 
the  blessings  of  the  time. 

It  may  be  that  I  have  seemed  to  imply  by  the 
examples  I  have  chosen  that  the  literature  of  con- 
tinental Europe  is  to  be  shunned.  Naturally  in 
addressing  English-speaking  folk  one  selects  exam- 
ples when  possible  from  literature  in  that  tongue  ; 
and  I  have  alluded  to  books  in  other  languages 
only  when  they  brought  out  more  strikingly  than 
do  English  books  a  particular  point.  It  is  need- 
less to  say  that  in  these  cosmopolitan  days  no  one 
can  afford  to  neglect  the  riches  of  other  nations  in 
contemporary  literature.  It  is  difficult  to  resist 
the  temptation  to  make  lists,  to  speak  of  the  men 
who  in  France  with  Guy  de  Maupassant  at  their 
head  have  developed  so  great  a  mastery  of  style ; 
one  would  gladly  dwell  on  the  genius  of  Turge- 
nieff,  perhaps  the  one  writer  who  excuses  the  mod- 
ern craze  for  Russian  books ;  or  of  Sienkiewicz, 
who  has  only  Dumas  pere  to  dispute  his  place  as 
first  romancer  of  the  world ;  and  so  on  for  other 
writers  of  other  lands  and  tongues.  It  is  unneces- 
sary, however,  to  multiply  examples,  and  here  there 
is  no  attempt  to  speak  exhaustively  even  of  Eng- 
lish literature. 

The  thing  to  be  kept  in  mind  is  that  it  is  our 
good  fortune  to  live  in  the  century  which  in  the 
whole  course  of  English  literature  is  outranked  by 
the  brilliant  Elizabethan  period  only.  It  is  surely 
worth  while  to  attempt  to  prove  ourselves  worthy 
of  that  which  the  gods  have  graciously  given  us. 
Men  sigh  for  the  good  day  that  is  gone,  and  imagine 


NEW  BOOKS  AND  OLD  183 

that  had  they  lived  then  they  would  have  made 
their  lives  correspondingly  rich  to  match  the  splen- 
dors of  an  age  now  famous.  We  live  in  a  time 
destined  to  go  down  to  the  centuries  not  unre- 
nowned  for  literary  achievement;  it  is  for  us  to 
prove  ourselves  appreciative  and  worthy  of  this 
time. 


XIV 

FICTION 

Probably  the  oldest  passion  of  the  race  which 
can  lay  any  claim  to  connection  with  the  intellect 
is  the  love  of  stories.  The  most  ancient  examples 
of  literature  which  have  been  preserved  are  largely 
in  the  form  of  narratives.  As  soon  as  man  has  so 
far  conquered  the  art  of  speech  as  to  get  beyond 
the  simplest  statements,  he  may  be  supposed  to 
begin  instinctively  to  relate  incidents,  to  tell  rudi- 
mentary tales,  and  to  put  into  words  the  story  of 
events  which  have  happened,  or  which  might  have 
happened. 

The  interest  which  every  human  being  takes  in 
the  things  which  may  befall  his  fellows  underlies 
this  universal  fondness  ;  and  the  man  who  does  not 
love  a  story  must  be  devoid  of  normal  human  sym- 
pathy with  his  kind.  It  is  hardly  necessary,  at  this 
late  day,  to  point  out  the  strong  hold  upon  the 
sympathies  of  his  fellows  which  the  story-teller 
has  had  from  the  dawn  of  civilization.  The  mind 
easily  pictures  the  gaunt  reciters  who,  in  savage 
tribes,  repeat  from  generation  to  generation  the 
stories  and  myths  handed  orally  from  father  to  son  ; 
or  the  professional  narrators  of  the  Orient  who  re- 
peat gorgeously  colored  legends  and  fantastic  ad- 


FICTION  185 

ventures  in  the  gate  or  the  market.  Perhaps,  too, 
the  mention  of  the  subject  of  this  talk  brings  from 
the  past  the  homely,  kindly  figure  of  the  nurse 
who  made  our  childish  eyes  grow  large,  and  our 
little  hearts  go  trippingly  in  the  days  of  pinafores 
and  fairy-lore  —  the  blessed  days  when  "  once  upon 
a  time  "  was  the  open  sesame  to  all  delights.  The 
responsiveness  of  human  beings  to  story-telling  the 
world  over  unites  all  mankind  as  in  a  bond  of  com- 
mon sympathy. 

What  old-fashioned  theologians  seemed  to  find 
an  inexhaustible  pleasure  in  calling  "  the  natural 
man  "  has  always  been  strongly  inclined  to  turn  in 
his  reading  to  narratives  in  preference  to  what  our 
grandparents  primly  designated  as  "  improving 
works."  In  any  library  the  bindings  of  the  novels 
are  sure  to  be  worn,  while  the  sober  backs  of  treat- 
ises upon  manners,  or  morals,  or  philosophy,  or 
even  science,  remain  almost  as  fresh  as  when  they 
left  the  bindery.  Each  reader  in  his  own  grade 
selects  the  sort  of  tale  which  most  appeals  to  him ; 
and  while  the  range  is  wide,  the  principle  of 
selection  is  not  so  greatly  varied.  The  shop-girl 
gloats  over  "  The  Earl's  Bride ;  or.  The  Heiress 
of  Plantagenet  Park."  The  school  -  miss  in  the 
street-car  smiles  contemptuously  as  she  sees  this 
title,  and  complacently  opens  the  volume  of  the 
"  Duchess  "  or  of  Rhoda  Broughton  which  is  the 
delight  of  her  own  soul.  The  advanced  young 
woman  of  society  has  only  contempt  for  such  trash, 
and  accompanies  her  chocolate  caramels  with  the 
perusal  of  "  The  Yellow  Aster,"  or  the  "  Green 


186  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

Carnation,*'  while  her  mother,  very  likely,  reads 
the  felicitous  foulness  of  some  Frenchman.  Those 
readers  who  have  a  sane  and  wholesome  taste, 
properly  cultivated,  take  their  pleasure  in  really 
good  novels  or  stories  ;  but  the  fondness  for  narra- 
tive of  some  sort  is  universal. 

It  would  be  manifestly  unfair  to  imply  that  there 
is  never  a  natural  inclination  for  what  is  known 
as  "  solid  reading,"  but  such  a  taste  is  exceptional 
rather  than  general.  Certainly  a  person  who  cared 
only  for  stories  could  not  be  looked  upon  as  hav- 
ing advanced  fax  ^u.  intellectual  development ;  but 
appreciation  for  other  forms  of  literature  is  rather 
the  effect  of  cultivation  than  the  result  of  natural 
tendencies.  Most  of  us  have  had  periods  in  which 
we  have  endeavored  to  persuade  ourselves  that  we 
were  of  the  intellectual  elect,  and  that  however 
circumstances  had  been  against  us,  we  did  in  our 
inmost  souls  pant  for  philosophy  and  yearn  for  ab- 
stract wisdom.  We  are  all  apt  to  assure  ourselves 
that  if  we  might,  we  should  devote  our  days  to  the 
study  of  science  and  our  nights  to  mastering  the 
deepest  secrets  of  metaphysics.  "We  declare  to 
ourselves  that  we  have  not  time  ;  that  just  now  we 
are  wofuUy  overworked,  but  that  in  some  golden, 
although  unfortunately  indeterminate  future,  for 
which  we  assure  ourselves  most  solemnly  that  we 
long  passionately,  we  shall  pore  over  tremendous 
tomes  of  philosophical  thought  as  the  bee  grapples 
itself  to  a  honey-full  clover-blossom.  It  is  all 
humbug ;  and,  what  is  more,  we  know  that  it  is 
humbug.     We  do  not,  as  a  rule,  relish  the  effort 


FICTION  187 

of  comprehending  and  assimilating  profoundly 
thoughtful  literature,  and  it  is  generally  more  easy 
to  read  fiction  in  a  slipshod  way  than  it  is  to  glide 
with  any  amusement  over  intellectual  work.  The 
intense  strain  of  the  age  of  course  increases  this 
tendency  to  light  reading ;  but  in  any  age  the  only 
books  of  which  practically  everybody  who  reads  at 
all  is  fond  are  the  story-books. 

It  has  been  from  time  to  time  the  habit  of  busy 
idlers  to  fall  into  excited  and  often  acrimonious 
discussion  in  regard  to  this  general  love  for  stories. 
Many  have  held  that  it  is  an  instinct  of  a  fallen 
and  unregenerate  nature,  and  that  it  is  to  be  checked 
at  any  cost.  It  is  not  so  long  since  certain  most  re- 
spectable and  influential  religious  sects  set  the  face 
steadfastly  against  novels  ;  and  you  may  remember 
as  an  instance  that  when  George  Eliot  was  a  young 
woman  she  regarded  novel-reading  as  a  wicked 
amusement.  There  is  to-day  a  more  rational  state 
of  feeling.  It  is  seen  that  it  is  better  to  accept 
the  instincts  of  human  nature,  and  endeavor  to 
work  through  them  than  to  engage  in  the  well-nigh 
hopeless  task  of  attempting  to  eradicate  them.  To- 
day we  are  coming  to  recognize  the  cunning  of  the 
East  in  inculcating  wisdom  in  fables  and  the  pro- 
found lesson  of  the  statement  in  the  Gospels : 
"  Without  a  parable  spake  He  not  unto  them." 

Much  of  the  distrust  which  has  been  in  the  past 
felt  in  regard  to  fiction  has  arisen  from  a  narrow 
and  uncomprehending  idea  of  its  nature.  Formalists 
have  conceived  that  the  relating  of  things  which 


188  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

never  occurred  —  which  indeed  it  was  often  im- 
possible should  occur,  —  is  a  violation  of  truth. 
The  fundamental  ground  of  most  of  the  objections 
which  moralists  have  made  to  fiction  has  been  the 
assumption  that  fiction  is  false.  Of  certain  kinds 
of  fiction  this  is  of  course  true  enough,  but  of  fic- 
tion which  comes  within  the  range  of  literature  it 
is  conspicuously  incorrect. 

Fiction  is  literature  which  is  false  to  the  letter 
that  it  may  be  true  to  the  spirit.  It  is  unfettered 
by  narrow  actualities  of  form,  because  it  has  to 
express  the  higher  actualities  of  emotion.  It  uses 
incident  and  character  as  mere  language.  It  is  as 
unfair  to  object  to  the  incidents  of  a  great  novel 
that  they  are  untrue,  as  it  would  be  to  say  that  the 
letters  of  a  word  are  untrue.  There  is  no  question 
of  truth  or  untruth  beyond  the  question  whether 
the  symbols  express  that  which  they  are  intended 
to  convey.  The  letters  are  set  down  to  impart  to 
the  intelligence  of  the  reader  the  idea  of  a  given 
word ;  the  incidents  of  a  novel  are  used  to  embody 
a  truth  of  human  nature  and  life.  Truth  is  here 
the  verity  of  the  thing  conveyed.  In  a  narrow 
and  literal  sense  Hamlet  and  Othello  and  Colonel 
Newcome  and  Becky  Sharp  are  untrue.  They 
never  existed  in  the  flesh.  They  have  lived,  how- 
ever, in  the  higher  and  more  vital  sense  that  they 
have  been  part  of  the  imagination  of  a  master. 
They  are  true  in  that  they  express  the  truth.  It 
is  a  dull  misunderstanding  of  the  value  of  things 
to  call  that  book  untrue  which  deals  with  fictitious 
characters  wisely,  yet  to  hold  as  verity  that  which 


FICTION  189 

records  actual  events  stolidly  and  unappreciatively. 
The  history  may  be  false  from  beginning  to  end 
and  the  fiction  true.  Fiction  which  is  worthy  of 
consideration  under  the  name  of  literature  is  the 
truest  prose  in  the  world ;  and  I  believe  that  it 
is  not  without  an  instinctive  recognition  of  this 
fact  that  mankind  has  so  generally  taken  it  to  its 
heart. 

The  value  of  at  least  certain  works  of  fiction  has 
come  to  be  generally  recognized  by  the  intellectual 
world.  There  are  some  novels  which  it  is  taken 
for  granted  that  every  person  of  education  has 
read.  Whoever  makes  the  smallest  pretense  of 
culture  must,  for  instance,  be  at  least  tolerably 
familiar  with  Scott,  Thackeray,  Dickens,  and  Haw- 
thorne ;  while  he  will  find  it  difficult  to  hold  the 
respect  of  cultivated  men  unless  he  is  also  ac- 
quainted with  Miss  Austen,  George  Eliot,  and 
Charlotte  Bronte,  with  Dumas  ^9ere,  Balzac,  and 
Victor  Hugo,  and  with  the  works  of  leading  living 
writers  of  romance.  "  Don  Quixote  "  is  as  truly  a 
necessary  part  of  a  liberal  education  as  is  the  mul- 
tiplication table ;  and  it  would  not  be  difficult  to 
extend  the  list  of  novels  which  it  is  assumed  as  a 
matter  of  course  that  persons  of  cultivation  know 
familiarly. 

Nor  is  it  only  the  works  of  the  greater  writers  of 
imaginative  narration  which  have  secured  a  general 
recognition.  If  it  is  not  held  that  it  is  essential 
for  an  educated  man  to  have  read  Trollope,  Charles 
Keade,  Kingsley,  or  Miss  Mulock,  for  example,  it 
is  at  least  recognized  that  one  had  better  have 


190  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

gained  an  acquaintance  with  these  and  similar 
writers.  Traill,  the  English  critic,  speaks  warmly 
of  the  books  which  while  falling  below  the  first 
rank  are  yet  richly  worth  attention.  He  says  with 
justice :  — 

The  world  can  never  estimate  the  debt  that  it  owes 
to  second-class  literature.  Yet  it  is  basely  afraid  to 
acknowledge  the  debt,  hypocritically  desiring  to  con- 
vey the  impression  that  such  literature  comes  to  it  in 
spite  of  protest,  calling  off  its  attention  from  the  great 
productions. 

It  is  true  enough  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
foolish  pretense  in  regard  to  our  genuine  taste  in 
reading,  but  in  actual  practice  most  persons  do  in 
the  long  run  read  chiefly  what  they  really  enjoy. 
It  is  also  true  that  there  are  more  readers  who  are 
capable  of  appreciating  the  novels  of  the  second 
grade  than  there  are  those  who  are  in  sympathy 
with  fiction  of  the  first.  The  thing  for  each  indi- 
vidual reader  is  to  see  to  it  that  he  is  honest  in  this 
matter  with  himself,  and  that  he  gives  attention  to 
the  best  that  he  can  like  rather  than  to  the  poorest. 

Even  those  who  accept  the  fact  that  cultivated 
persons  will  read  novels,  and  those  who  go  so  far 
as  to  appreciate  that  it  is  a  distinct  gain  to  the 
intellectual  life,  are,  however,  very  apt  to  be  trou- 
bled by  the  dangers  of  over-indulgence  in  this  sort 
of  literature.  It  has  been  said  and  repeated  innum- 
erable times  that  the  excessive  reading  of  novels  is 
mentally  debilitating  and  even  debauching.  This 
is  certainly  true.  So  is  it  true  that  there  is  great 
mental  danger  in  the  excessive  reading  of  philoso- 


FICTION  191 

phy  or  theology,  or  the  excessive  eating  of  bread, 
or  the  excessive  doing  of  any  other  thing.  The 
favorite  figure  in  connection  with  fiction  has  been 
to  compare  it  to  opium-eating  or  to  dram-drinking ; 
and  the  moral  usually  drawn  is  that  the  novel- 
reader  is  in  imminent  danger  of  intellectual  dis- 
soluteness or  even  of  what  might  be  called  the 
delirium  tremens  of  the  imagination.  I  should  not 
be  honest  if  I  pretended  to  have  a  great  deal  of 
patience  with  most  that  is  said  in  this  line  The 
exclusive  use  of  fiction  as  mental  food  is  of  course 
unwise,  and  the  fact  is  so  patent  that  it  is  hardly 
worth  while  to  waste  words  in  repeating  it.  When 
I  said  a  moment  ago  that  there  is  danger  in  the 
eating  of  bread  if  it  is  carried  to  excess  I  indicated 
what  seems  to  me  to  be  the  truth  in  this  matter. 
If  one  reads  good  and  wholesome  fiction,  I  believe 
that  the  natural  instincts  of  the  healthy  mind  may 
be  trusted  to  settle  the  question  of  how  much  shall 
be  read.  If  the  fiction  is  unhealthy,  morbid,  or 
false,  any  of  it  is  bad.  If  it  is  good,  if  it  calls  into 
play  a  healthy  imagination,  there  is  very  little  dan- 
ger that  too  much  of  it  will  be  taken.  When  there 
is  complaint  that  a  girl  or  a  boy  is  injuring  the 
mind  by  too  exclusive  a  devotion  to  novels,  I  be- 
lieve that  it  generally  means,  if  the  facts  of  the 
case  were  understood,  that  the  mind  of  the  reader 
is  in  an  unwholesome  condition,  and  that  this  ex- 
cessive devotion  to  fiction  is  a  symptom  rather  than 
a  disease.  When  the  girl  coughs,  it  is  not  the 
cough  that  is  the  trouble ;  this  is  only  a  symptom 
of  the  irritation  of  membranes :  and  I  believe  that 


192  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

much  the  same  is  the  case  with  extravagant  novel- 
readers. 

Of  course  this  view  of  the  matter  will  not  com- 
mend itself  to  everybody.  It  is  hard  for  us  to 
shake  off  the  impression  of  aU  the  countless  homi- 
lies which  have  been  composed  against  novel-read- 
ing :  and  we  are  by  no  means  free  from  the  poison 
of  the  ascetic  idea  that  anything  to  which  mankind 
takes  naturally  and  with  pleasure  cannot  really  be 
good  in  itself.  I  hope,  however,  that  it  will  not 
appear  to  you  unreasonable  when  I  say  that  it 
seems  to  me  far  better  to  insist  upon  proper  meth- 
ods of  reading  and  upon  the  selection  of  books 
which  are  genuine  literature  than  to  wage  unavail- 
ing war  against  the  natural  love  of  stories  which  is 
to  be  found  in  every  normal  and  wholesome  human 
being.  If  I  could  be  assured  that  a  boy  or  a  girl 
read  only  good  novels  and  read  them  appreciatively 
and  sympathetically,  I  should  never  trouble  my- 
self to  inquire  how  many  he  or  she  read.  I  should 
be  hopefully  patient  even  if  there  was  apparently 
a  neglect  of  history  and  philosophy.  I  should  be 
confident  that  it  is  impossible  that  the  pr()j)er  read- 
ing of  good  fiction  should  not  in  the  end  both  prove 
beneficial  in  itself  and  lead  the  mind  to  whatever 
is  good  in  other  departments  of  literature.  I  am 
not  pleading  for  the  indlscriminating  indulgence 
in  doubtful  stories.  I  do  not  believe  that  girls  are 
brought  to  fine  and  well-developed  womanhood  by 
an  exclusive  devotion  to  the  chocolate-caramel-and- 
pickled-lime  sort  of  novels.  I  do  not  hold  that 
boys  come  to  nobility  and  manliness  througli  the 


FICTION  193 

influence  of  sensational  tales  wherein  blood-boul- 
tered  bandits  reduce  to  infinitesimal  powder  every 
commandment  of  the  decalogue.  I  do,  however, 
thoroughly  believe  that  sound  and  imaginative  fic- 
tion is  as  natural  and  as  wholesome  for  growing 
minds  as  is  the  air  of  the  seashore  or  the  moun- 
tains for  growing  bodies. 

The  fact  is  of  especial  importance  as  applied  to 
the  education  of  children.  A  healthy  child  is  in- 
stinctively in  the  position  of  a  learner.  He  is  un- 
consciously full  of  deep  wonderment  concerning 
this  world  in  which  he  finds  himself,  and  concern- 
ing this  mysterious  thing  called  life  in  which  he  has 
a  share.  His  mind  is  eager  to  receive,  but  it  is 
entirely  free  from  any  affectation.  A  child  accepts 
what  appeals  to  him  directly,  and  he  is  without 
scruple  in  neglecting  what  does  not  interest  him. 
He  learns  only  by  slow  degrees  that  knowledge 
may  have  value  and  interest  from  its  remote  bear- 
ings ;  and  in  dealing  with  him  in  the  earlier  stages 
of  mental  development  there  is  no  other  means  so 
sure  and  effective  as  story-telling.  It  is  here  that 
a  child  finds  the  specific  and  the  concrete  while  he 
is  still  too  immature  to  be  moved  by  the  general 
and  the  abstract. 

It  is  "  to  cater  to  this  universal  taste,"  the  cir- 
culars of  the  publishers  assure  us,  that  so-called 
"  juvenile  literature  "  was  invented.  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  extravagant,  but  it  does  seem  to  me  that 
modern  juvenile  literature  has  blighted  the  rising 
generation  as  rust  blights  a  field  of  wheat.  The 
holiday  counters  are  piled  high  with  hastily  writ- 


194  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

ten,  superficial,  often  inaccurate,  and,  what  is  most 
important  of  all,  unimaginative  books.  The  nur- 
sery of  to-day  is  littered  with  worthless  volumes, 
and  the  child  halfway  through  school  has  already 
outlived  a  dozen  varieties  of  books  for  the  young. 

A  good  many  of  these  works  are  as  full  of  infor- 
mation as  a  sugar-coated  pill  is  of  drugs.  Thirst 
for  practical  information  is  one  of  the  extrava- 
gances of  the  age.  Parents  to-day  make  their  chil- 
dren to  pass  through  tortures  in  the  service  of  what 
they  call  "  practical  knowledge  "  as  the  unnatural 
parents  of  old  made  their  offspring  to  pass  through 
the  fires  of  Moloch.  We  are  all  apt  to  lose  sight 
of  the  fact  that  wisdom  is  not  what  a  man  knows 
but  what  he  is.  The  important  thing  is  not  what 
we  drill  into  our  children,  but  what  we  drill  them 
into.  There  are  times  when  it  is  the  most  pro- 
found moral  duty  of  a  parent  to  substitute  Grimm's 
fairy  stories  for  text-books,  and  to  devote  the  whole 
stress  of  educational  effort  to  the  developing  of  the 
child's  imagination.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  it 
is  not  of  more  importance  to  see  to  it  that  a  child 
—  and  especially  a  boy  —  is  familiar  with  "  the  land 
east  of  the  sun  and  west  of  the  moon  "  than  to  stuff 
his  brain  with  the  geographical  details  of  the  wilds 
of  Asia,  Africa,  or  the  isles  of  the  far  seas.  I  am 
sure  that  he  is  better  off  from  knowing  about  Sind- 
bad  and  Ali  Baba  than  for  being  able  to  extract 
a  cube  root.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  understood  as 
speaking  against  the  imparting  of  practical  infor- 
mation, although  I  must  say  that  I  think  that  the 
distinction   between   what  is  really  practical  and 


FICTION  195 

what  is  not  seems  to  me  to  be  somewhat  confused 
in  these  days.  I  simply  mean  that  just  now  there 
is  need  of  enforcing  the  value  of  the  imaginative 
side  of  education.  No  accumulation  of  facts  can 
compensate  for  the  narrowing  of  the  gi-owing  mind  ; 
and  indeed  facts  are  not  to  be  really  grasped  and 
assimilated  without  the  development  of  the  realiz- 
ing —  the  imaginative  —  faculty. 

It  is  even  more  important  for  children  than  for 
adults  that  their  reading  shall  be  imaginative. 
The  only  way  to  protect  them  against  worthless 
books  is  to  give  them  a  decided  taste  for  what  is 
good.  It  is  only  after  children  have  been  debauched 
by  vapid  or  sensational  books  that  they  come  to 
delight  in  rubbish.  It  is  easier  in  the  first  place 
to  interest  them  in  real  literature  than  in  shams. 
The  thing  is  to  take  the  trouble  to  see  to  it  that 
what  they  read  is  fine.  The  most  common  error 
in  this  connection  is  to  suppose  that  children  need 
an  especial  sort  of  literature  different  from  that 
suited  to  adults.  As  far,  certainly,  as  serious  edu- 
cation is  concerned,  there  is  neither  adult  literature 
nor  juvenile  literature ;  there  is  simply  literature. 
Speaking  broadly,  the  literature  best  for  grown 
persons  is  the  literature  best  for  children.  The 
limitations  of  youth  have,  and  should  have,  the 
same  effects  in  literature  as  in  life.  They  restrict 
the  comprehension  and  appreciation  of  the  facts 
of  life ;  and  equally  they  set  a  bound  to  the  com- 
prehension and  appreciation  of  what  is  read.  The 
impressions  which  a  child  gets  from  either  are  not 
those  of  his  elders.     The  important  thing  is  that 


196  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

what  the  growing  mind  receives  shall  be  vital  and 
wholesome.  It  is  less  unfortunate  for  the  child  to 
mistake  what  is  genuine  than  to  receive  as  true 
what  is  really  false.  We  all  commit  errors  in  the 
conclusions  which  we  draw  from  life ;  and  so  will 
it  be  with  children  and  books.  Books  which  are 
wise  and  sane,  however,  will  in  time  correct  the 
misconceptions  they  beget,  as  life  in  time  makes 
clear  the  mistakes  which  life  has  produced. 

The  whole  philosophy  of  reading  for  children  is 
pretty  well  summed  up  by  implication  in  the  often 
quoted  passage  in  which  Charles  Lamb  describes 
under  the  disguise  of  Bridget  Elia,  the  youthful 
experience  of  his  sister  Mary  :  — 

She  was  tumbled  early,  by  accident  or  design,  into 
a  spacious  closet  of  good  old  English  reading,  without 
much  selection  or  prohibition,  and  browsed  at  will 
upon  that  fair  and  wholesome  pasturage.  Had  I 
twenty  girls,  they  should  be  brought  up  exactly  in 
this  fashion.  —  Mackery  End. 

Fiction  —  to  return  to  the  immediate  subject  of 
this  talk  —  is  only  a  part  of  a  child's  education, 
but  it  is  a  most  essential  part ;  and  it  is  of  the  great- 
est importance  that  the  fiction  given  to  a  young 
reader  be  noble  ;  that  it  be  true  to  the  essentials  of 
life,  as  it  can  be  true  only  if  it  is  informed  by  a 
keen  and  sane  imagination.  Children  should  be 
fed  on  the  genuine  and  sound  folk-tales  like  those 
collected  by  the  brothers  Grimm  ;  the  tales  of 
Hans  Christian  Andersen,  of  Asbjbrnsen,  of  Labou- 
laye,  and  of  that  delightful  old  lady,  the  Countess 
d'Aulnoy  ;  the  fine  and  robust  "  Morte  d'Arthur  " 


FICTION  197 

of  Malory  ;  the  more  modern  classics,  "  Robinson 
Crusoe  "  and  ''  Gulliver."  Then  there  are  Haw- 
thorne's "  Tanglewood  Tales  "  and  the  "  Wonder- 
Book,"  "  Treasure  Island  "  and  "  Kidnapped," 
"  Uncle  Remus,"  and  the  "  Jungle  Books."  It 
may  be  claimed  that  these  are  "  juvenile  "  litera- 
ture ;  but  I  have  named  nothing  of  which  I,  at 
least,  am  not  as  fond  now  as  in  my  youth,  and  I 
have  yet  to  discover  that  adults  find  lack  of  inter- 
est in  good  books  even  of  fairy  stories.  What 
has  been  said  against  juvenile  literature  has  been 
intended  against  the  innumerable  works  mustered 
under  that  name  which  are  not  literature  at  all. 
Wonder  lore  is  as  normal  food  for  old  as  for 
young,  and  there  is  no  more  propriety  in  confining 
it  to  children  than  there  is  in  limiting  the  use  of 
bread  and  butter  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  nursery. 
It  is  neither  possible  nor  wise  to  attempt  here  a 
catalogue  of  books  especially  adapted  to  children. 
I  should  myself  put  Spenser  hi^h  in  the  list,  and 
very  likely  include  others  which  common  custom 
does  not  regard  as  well  adapted  to  the  young. 
These,  of  course,  are  books  to  be  read  to  the  child, 
not  that  he  at  first  can  be  expected  to  go  pleasur- 
ably  through  alone.  Prominent  among  them  I 
would  insist  first,  last,  and  always  upon  Shake- 
speare. If  it  were  practically  possible  to  confine 
the  reading  of  a  child  to  Shakespeare  and  the 
Bible,  the  whole  question  would  be  well  and  wisely 
settled.  Since  this  cannot  be,  it  is  at  least  essen- 
tial that  a  child  be  given  both  as  soon  as  he  can 
be  interested  in  them,  —  and  it  is  equally  impor- 


198  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

tant  that  lie  be  given  neither  until  they  do  attract 
him.  He  is  to  be  guided  and  aided,  but  there 
cannot  be  a  more  rich  and  noble  introduction  to 
fiction  than  through  the  inspired  pages  of  Shake- 
speare, and  the  child  who  has  been  well  grounded 
in  the  greatest  of  poets  is  not  likely  ever  to  go  very 
widely  astray  in  his  reading. 


I 


i 


XV 

FICTION  AND  LIFE 

The  reading  of  fiction  has  come  to  have  an  im« 
portant  and  well  recognized  place  in  modem  life. 
However  strong  may  be  the  expression  of  disappro- 
bation against  certain  individual  books,  no  one  in 
these  days  attempts  to  deny  the  value  of  imagina- 
tive literature  in  the  development  of  mind  and  the 
formation  of  character ;  yet  so  strong  is  the  Puri- 
tan strain  in  the  blood  of  the  English  race  that 
there  is  still  a  good  deal  of  lingering  ascetic  disap- 
proval of  novels. 

It  must  be  remembered  in  this  connection  that 
there  are  novels  and  novels.  The  objections  which 
have  from  time  to  time  been  heaped  upon  fiction 
in  general  are  more  than  deserved  by  fiction  in  par- 
ticular ;  and  that,  too,  by  the  fiction  most  in  evi- 
dence. The  books  least  worthy  are  for  the  most  part 
precisely  those  which  in  their  brief  day  are  most 
likely  to  excite  comment.  That  the  flaming  scar- 
let toadstools  which  irresistibly  attract  the  eye  in 
the  forest  are  viciously  poisonous  does  not,  however, 
alter  the  fact  that  mushrooms  are  at  once  delicious 
and  nutritious.  It  is  no  more  logical  to  condemn 
all  fiction  on  account  of  the  worthlessness  or  hurt- 
fulness  of  bad  books  than  it  would  be  to  denounce 


200  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

all  food  because  things  have  often  been  eaten 
which  are  dangerously  unwholesome. 

The  great  value  of  fiction  as  a  means  of  intellec- 
tual and  of  moral  training  lies  in  the  fact  that  man 
is  actually  and  vitally  taught  nothing  of  import- 
ance save  by  that  which  really  touches  his  feelings. 
Advice  appeals  to  the  intellect,  and  experience  to 
the  emotions.  What  has  been  didactically  told  to 
us  is  at  best  a  surface  treatment,  while  what  we 
have  felt  is  an  inward  modification  of  what  we  are. 
We  approve  of  advice,  and  we  act  according  to 
experience.  Often  when  we  have  decided  upon  one 
course  of  life  or  action,  the  inner  self  which  is  the 
concrete  result  of  our  temperament  and  our  experi- 
ences goes  quietly  forward  in  a  path  entirely  differ- 
ent. What  we  have  resolved  seldom  comes  to  pass 
unless  it  is  sustained  by  what  we  have  felt.  For 
centuries  has  man  been  defining  himself  as  a  being 
that  reasons  while  he  has  been  living  as  a  being 
that  feels. 

The  sure  hold  of  fiction  upon  mankind  depends 
upon  the  fact  that  it  enables  the  reader  to  gain  ex- 
perience vicariously.  Seriously  and  sympatheti- 
cally to  read  a  story  which  is  true  to  life  is  to  live 
through  an  emotional  experience.  How  vivid  this 
emotion  is  will  manifestly  depend  upon  the  imagi- 
native sympathy  with  which  one  reads.  The  young 
man  who  has  appreciatively  entered  into  the  life  of 
Arthur  Pendennis  will  hardly  find  that  he  is  able  to 
go  through  the  world  in  a  spirit  of  dandified  self- 
complaisance  without  a  restraining  consciousness 
that  such  an  attitude  toward  life  is  most  absurd 


FICTION  AND  LIFE  201 

folly.  A  man  of  confirmed  worldliness  is  perhaps 
not  to  be  turned  from  his  selfish  and  ignoble  living 
by  studying  the  history  of  Major  Pendennis,  to 
read  about  whom  is  not  unlike  drinking  dry  and 
rare  old  Madeira ;  yet  it  is  scarcely  to  be  doubted 
that  an  appreciation  of  the  figure  cut  by  the  old 
beau,  fluttering  over  the  flowers  of  youth  like  a 
preserved  butterfly  poised  on  a  wire,  must  tend  to 
lead  a  man  to  a  different  career.  No  reader  can 
have  felt  imaginatively  the  passionate  spiritual 
struggles  of  Arthur  Dimmesdale  without  being 
thereafter  more  sensitive  to  good  influences  and 
less  tolerant  of  self-deception  and  concealed  sin. 
These  are  the  more  obvious  examples.  The  expe- 
riences which  one  gains  from  good  fiction  go  much 
farther  and  deeper.  They  extend  into  those  most 
intangible  yet  most  real  regions  where  even  the 
metaphysician,  the  psychologist,  and  the  maker  of 
definitions  have  not  yet  been  able  to  penetrate ; 
those  dim,  mysterious  tracts  of  the  mind  which  are 
still  to  us  hardly  better  known  than  the  unex- 
plored mid-countries  of  Asia  or  Africa. 

As  a  means  of  accomplishing  a  desired  end 
didactic  literature  is  probably  the  most  futile  of  all 
the  unavailing  attempts  of  mankind.  In  the  days 
when  ringlets  and  pantalets  were  in  fashion,  when 
small  boys  wore  frilled  collars  and  asked  only  im- 
proving questions,  when  the  most  delirious  literary 
dissipation  of  which  the  youthful  fancy  could  con- 
ceive was  a  RoUo  book  or  a  prim  tale  by  Maria 
Edgeworth,  it  was  generally  believed  that  moral 
precepts  and  wise  maxims  had  a  prodigious  influ- 


202  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

ence  upon  the  young.  It  was  held  possible  to 
mould  the  rising  generation  by  putting  one  of  the 
sentences  of  Solomon  at  the  head  of  a  copy-book 
page,  and  to  make  a  permanent  impression  upon 
the  spirit  by  saws  and  sermons.  If  this  were  ever 
true,  it  is  certainly  not  true  now.  If  sermon  or 
saw  has  touched  the  imagination  of  the  hearer,  it 
has  had  some  effect  which  will  be  lasting  ;  and  this 
the  saw  does  oftener  than  the  sermon,  the  proverb 
than  the  precept.  If  it  has  won  only  an  intellec- 
tual assent,  there  is  small  ground  for  supposing  that 
it  will  bring  about  any  alteration  which  will  be  per- 
manent and  effective. 

Taking  into  account  these  considerations,  one 
might  sum  up  the  whole  matter  somewhat  in  this 
way :  To  read  fiction  is  certainly  a  pleasure  ;  it  is 
to  be  looked  upon  as  no  less  important  a  means  of 
intellectual  development ;  while  in  the  cultivation 
of  the  moral  and  spiritual  sense  the  proper  use  of 
fiction  is  one  of  the  most  effectual  and  essential 
agencies  to-day  within  the  reach  of  men.  In  other 
words  the  proper  reading  of  fiction  is,  from  the 
standpoint  of  pleasure,  of  intellectual  development, 
or  of  moral  growth,  neither  more  nor  less  than  a 
distinct  and  imperative  duty. 

I  have  been  careful  to  say,  "  the  proper  reading 
of  fiction."  Whatever  strictures  may  be  laid  upon 
careless  readers  in  general  may  perhaps  be  quadru- 
pled when  applied  to  bad  reading  of  novels.  It  is 
the  duty  of  nobody  to  read  worthless  fiction ;  and 
it  is  a  species  of  moral  iniquity  to  read  good  nov- 
els carelessly,  flippantly,  or  superficially.     There  is 


FICTION  AND  LIFE 

small  literary  or  intellectual  hope  for  those  whom 
Henry  James  describes  as  '*  people  who  read  nov- 
els as  an  exercise  in  skipping."  There  are  two 
tests  by  which  the  novel-reader  is  to  be  tried :  What 
sort  of  fiction  does  he  read,  and  how  does  he  read 
it  ?  If  the  answers  to  these  questions  are  satisfac- 
tory, the  whole  matter  is  settled. 

Of  course  it  is  of  the  first  importance  that  the 
reader  think  for  himself  ;  that  he  form  his  own 
opinions,  and  have  his  own  appreciations.  Small 
minds  are  like  weak  galvanic  cells ;  one  alone  is 
not  strong  enough  to  generate  a  sensible  current ; 
they  must  be  grouped  to  produce  an  appreciable 
result.  One  has  no  opinion ;  while  to  accomplish 
anything  approaching  a  sensation  a  whole  circle  is 
required.  It  takes  an  entire  community  of  such 
intellects  to  get  up  a  feeling,  and  of  course  the  feel- 
ing when  aroused  is  shared  in  common.  There  are 
plenty  of  pretentious  readers  of  all  the  latest  noto- 
rious novels  who  have  as  small  an  individual  share 
in  whatever  emotion  the  book  excites  as  a  Turkish 
wife  has  in  the  multifariously  directed  affections 
of  her  husband.  It  is  impossible  not  to  see  the 
shallowness,  the  pretense,  and  the  intellectual  de- 
moralization of  these  readers ;  and  it  is  equally  idle 
to  deny  the  worthlessness  of  the  books  in  which 
they  delight. 

What,  then,  is  to  be  learned  from  fiction,  that 
so  much  stress  is  to  be  laid  upon  the  necessity  of 
making  it  a  part  of  our  intellectual  and  moral  edu- 
cation ?  The  answer  has  in  part  at  least  been  so 
often  given  that  it  seems  almost  superfluous  to  re- 


204  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

peat  it.  The  more  direct  lessons  of  the  novel  are 
so  evident  as  scarcely  to  call  for  enumeration.  No- 
body needs  at  this  late  day  to  be  told  how  much 
may  be  learned  from  fiction  of  the  customs  of  dif- 
ferent grades  of  society,  of  the  ways  and  habits  of 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  and  of  the  even 
more  fascinating  if  not  actually  more  vitally  impor- 
tant manners  and  morals  of  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  women.  Every  reader  knows  how  much  may 
be  learned  from  stories  of  the  facts  of  human  re- 
lations and  of  social  existence,  —  facts  which  one 
accumulates  but  slowly  by  actual  experience,  while 
yet  a  knowledge  of  them  is  of  so  great  importance 
for  the  full  appreciation  and  the  proper  employ- 
ment and  enjoyment  of  life. 

Civilization  is  essentially  an  agreement  upon 
conventions.  It  is  the  tacit  acceptance  of  condi- 
tions and  concessions.  It  is  conceded  that  if  hu- 
man beings  are  to  live  together  it  is  necessary  that 
there  must  be  mutual  agreement,  and  as  civiliza- 
tion progresses  this  is  extended  to  all  departments 
and  details  of  life.  What  is  called  etiquette,  for  in- 
stance, is  one  variety  of  social  agreement  into  which 
men  have  entered  for  convenience  and  comfort  in 
living  together.  What  is  called  good  breeding  is 
but  the  manifestation  of  a  generous  desire  to  ob- 
serve all  those  human  regulations  by  which  the  lives 
of  others  may  be  rendered  more  happy.  These 
concessions  and  conventions  are  not  natural.  A 
man  may  be  born  with  the  spirit  of  good  breeding, 
but  he  must  learn  its  methods.  Nature  may  be- 
stow the  inclination  to  do  what  is  wisest  and  best 


FICTION  AND  LIFE  205 

in  human  relations,  but  the  forms  and  processes  of 
social  life  and  of  all  human  intercourse  must  be 
acquired.  It  is  one  of  the  functions  of  fiction  to 
instruct  in  all  this  knowledge ;  and  only  he  who  is 
unacquainted  with  life  will  account  such  an  office 
trivial. 

Intimate  familiarity  with  the  inner  characteris- 
tics of  humanity,  and  knowledge  of  the  experiences 
and  the  nature  of  mankind,  are  a  still  more  impor- 
tant gain  from  fiction.  Almost  unconsciously  the 
intelligent  novel-reader  grows  in  the  comprehen- 
sion of  what  men  are  and  of  what  they  may  be. 
This  art  makes  the  reader  a  sharer  in  those  mo- 
ments when  sensation  is  at  its  highest,  emotion  at 
its  keenest.  It  brings  into  the  life  which  is  out- 
wardly quiet  and  uneventful,  into  the  mind  which 
has  few  actual  experiences  to  stir  it  to  its  deeps, 
the  splendid  exhilaration  of  existence  at  its  best. 
The  pulse  left  dull  by  a  colorless  life  throbs  and 
tingles  over  the  pages  of  a  vivid  romance ;  the 
heart  denied  contact  with  actualities  which  would 
awaken  it  beats  hotly  with  the  fictitious  passion 
made  real  by  the  imagination  ;  so  that  life  becomes 
forever  richer  and  more  full  of  meaning. 

In  one  way  it  is  possible  to  gain  from  these  im- 
aginative experiences  a  knowledge  of  life  more 
accurate  than  that  which  comes  from  life  itself.  It 
is  possible  to  judge,  to  examine,  to  weigh,  to  esti- 
mate the  emotions  which  are  enjoyed  aesthetically  ; 
whereas  emotions  arising  from  real  events  benumb 
all  critical  faculties  by  their  stinging  personal  qual- 
ity.   He  who  has  never  shared  actual  emotional  ex- 


206  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

periences  has  never  lived,  it  is  true ;  but  he  who  has 
not  shared  aesthetic  emotions  has  never  understood. 

What  should  be  the  character  of  fiction  is  pretty 
accurately  indicated  by  what  has  been  said  of  the 
part  which  fiction  should  play  in  human  develop- 
ment. Here,  as  in  all  literature,  men  are  less  influ- 
enced by  the  appeal  to  the  reason  than  by  the  appeal 
to  the  feelings.  The  novelist  who  has  a  strong 
and  lasting  influence  is  not  he  who  instructs  men 
directly,  but  he  who  moves  men.  This  is  instruc- 
tion in  its  higher  sense.  The  guidance  of  life  must 
come  from  the  reason  ;  equally,  however,  must  the 
impulse  of  life  come  from  the  emotions.  The  man 
who  is  ruled  by  reason  alone  is  but  a  curious  me- 
chanical toy  which  mimics  the  movements  of  life 
without  being  really  alive. 

This  prime  necessity  of  touching  and  moving  the 
reader  determines  one  of  the  most  important  points 
of  difference  between  literature  and  science.  It 
forces  the  story-teller  to  modify,  to  select,  and  to 
change  if  need  be  the  facts  of  life,  in  order  to  pro- 
duce an  impression  of  truth.  Out  of  the  multifari- 
ous details  of  existence  the  author  must  select  the 
significant ;  out  of  the  real  deduce  the  possibility 
which  shall  commend  itself  to  the  reader  as  verity. 

Above  everything  else  is  an  artist  who  is  worthy 
of  the  name  truthful  in  his  art.  He  never  permits 
himself  to* set  down  anything  which  is  not  a  verity 
to  his  imagination,  or  which  fails  to  be  consistent 
with  the  conditions  of  human  existence.  He  real- 
izes that  fiction  in  which  a  knowledge  of  the  out- 
ward shell  and  the  accidents  of  life  is  made  the 


FICTION  AND  LIFE  207 

chief  object  cannot  be  permanent  and  cannot  be 
vitally  effective.  The  novelist  is  not  called  upon 
to  paint  life,  but  to  interpret  life.  It  is  his  privi- 
lege to  be  an  artist  ;  and  an  artist  is  one  who  sees 
through  apparent  truth  to  actual  verity.  It  is  his 
first  and  most  essential  duty  to  arouse  the  inner 
being,  and  to  this  necessity  he  must  be  ready  to  sac- 
rifice literal  fact.  Until  the  imagination  is  awake, 
ftrt  cannot  even  begin  to  do  its  work.  It  is  true 
that  there  may  be  a  good  deal  of  pleasant  story- 
telling which  but  lightly  touches  the  fancy  and  does 
not  reach  deeper.  It  is  often  harmless  enough; 
but  it  is  as  idle  to  expect  from  this  any  keen  or 
lasting  pleasure,  and  still  more  any  mental  experi- 
ence of  enduring  significance,  as  it  would  be  to  ex- 
pect to  warm  Nova  Zembla  with  a  bonfire.  What 
for  the  moment  tickles  the  fancy  goes  with  the  mo- 
ment, and  leaves  little  trace  ;  what  touches  the  im- 
agination becomes  a  fact  of  life. 

Macaulay,  in  his  extraordinarily  wrong-headed 
essay  on  Milton,  has  explicitly  stated  a  very  wide- 
spread heresy  when  he  says  :  — 

We  cannot  unite  the  incompatible  advantages  of 
reality  and  deception,  the  clear  discernment  of  truth 
and  the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  fiction. 

This  is  the  ground  generally  held  by  unimagina- 
tive men.  Macaulay  had  many  good  gifts  and 
graces,  but  his  warmest  admirers  would  hardly  in- 
clude among  them  a  greatly  endowed  or  vigorously 
developed  imagination.  If  one  cannot  unite  the 
advantages  of  reality  and  deception,  if  he  cannot 


208  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

join  clear  discernment  of  trutli  to  the  exquisite  en- 
joyment of  fiction,  it  is  because  he  fails  of  all  just 
and  adequate  comprehension  of  literature.  To  call 
fiction  deception  is  simply  to  fail  to  understand 
that  real  truth  may  be  independent  of  apparent 
truth.  It  would  from  the  point  of  view  of  this  sen- 
tence of  Macaulay's  be  competent  to  open  the  Gos- 
pels and  caU  the  parable  of  the  sower  a  falsehood 
because  there  is  no  probability  that  it  referred  to 
any  particular  incident.  The  stupidity  of  criticism 
of  fiction  which  begins  with  the  assumption  that  it 
is  not  true  is  not  unlike  that  of  an  endeavor  to 
swaUow  a  chestnut  burr  and  the  consequent  decla- 
ration that  the  nut  is  uneatable.  If  one  is  not 
clever  enough  to  get  beneath  the  husk,  his  opinion 
is  surely  not  of  great  value. 

In  order  to  enjoy  a  novel,  it  is  certainly  not 
necessary  to  believe  it  in  a  literal  sense.  No  sane 
man  supposes  that  Don  Quixote  ever  did  or  ever 
could  exist.  To  the  intellect  the  book  is  little  more 
than  a  farrago  of  impossible  absurdities.  The  im- 
agination perceives  that  it  is  true  to  the  funda- 
mental essentials  of  human  nature,  and  understands 
that  the  book  is  true  in  a  sense  higher  than  that  of 
mere  literal  verity.  It  is  the  cultivated  man  who 
has  the  keenest  sense  of  reality,  and  yet  only  to  the 
cultivated  man  is  possible  the  exquisite  enjoyment 
of  "  Esmond,"  of  "  Les  Miserables,"  "  The  Scarlet 
Letter,"  "  The  Return  of  the  Native,"  or  "  The 
Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel."  So  far  from  being 
incompatible,  the  clear  discernment  of  truth  and 
the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  fiction  are  inseparable. 


FICTION  AND  LIFE  209 

An  artist  who  is  worthy  of  the  name  is  above 
all  else  truthful  in  his  art.  He  never  permits  him- 
self to  set  down  anything  which  he  does  not  feel  to 
be  true.  It  is  with  a  truth  higher  than  a  literal 
accuracy,  however,  that  he  is  concerned.  His  per- 
ception is  the  servant  of  his  imagination.  He 
observes  and  he  uses  the  outward  facts  of  life  as 
a  means  of  conveying  its  inner  meanings.  It  is 
this  that  makes  him  an  artist.  The  excuse  for 
his  claiming  the  attention  of  the  world  is  that  in 
virtue  of  his  imagination  he  is  gifted  with  an  in- 
sight keener  and  more  penetrating  than  that  of  his 
fellows ;  and  his  enduring  influence  depends  upon 
the  extent  to  which  he  justifies  this  claim. 

With  the  novel  of  trifles  it  is  difficult  to  have 
any  patience  whatever.  The  so-called  Realistic 
story  collects  insignificant  nothings  about  a  slender 
thread  of  plot  as  a  filament  of  cobweb  gathers  dust 
in  a  barn.  The  cobweb  seems  to  me  on  the  whole 
the  more  valuable,  since  at  least  it  has  the  benefit 
of  the  old  wives'  theory  that  it  is  good  to  check 
bleeding.  It  is  a  more  noble  office  to  be  wrapped 
about  a  cut  finger  than  to  muffle  a  benumbed  mind. 

One  question  which  the  great  mass  of  novel- 
readers  who  are  also  students  of  literature  are  in- 
terested to  have  answered  is.  How  far  is  it  well 
to  read  fiction  for  simple  amusement  ?  With  this 
inquiry,  too,  goes  the  kindred  one  whether  it  is 
well  or  ill  to  relax  the  mind  over  light  tales  of  the 
sort  sometimes  spoken  of  as  "suaimer  reading." 
To  this  it  is  impossible  to  give  a  categorical  reply. 
It  is  like  the  question  how  often  and  for  how  long 


210  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

it  is  wise  to  sit  down  to  rest  while  climbing  a  Lill. 
It  depends  upon  the  traveler,  and  no  one  else  can 
determine  a  point  which  is  to  be  decided  by  feel- 
ings and  conditions  known  alone  to  him.  It  is 
hardly  possible  and  it  is  not  wise  to  read  always 
with  exalted  aims.  Whatever  you  might  be  ad- 
vised by  me  or  by  any  other,  you  would  be  foolish 
not  to  make  of  fiction  a  means  of  grateful  relaxa- 
tion as  well  as  a  help  in  mental  growth.  Always 
it  is  important  to  remember,  however,  that  there  is 
a  wide  difference  in  the  ultimate  result,  according 
as  a  person  reads  for  diversion  the  best  that  will 
entertain  him  or  the  worst.  It  is  a  matter  of  the 
greatest  moment  that  our  amusements  shall  not  be 
allowed  to  debauch  our  taste.  It  is  necessary  to 
have  some  standard  even  in  the  choice  of  the  most 
foamy  fiction,  served  like  a  sherbet  on  a  hot  sum- 
mer afternoon.  One  does  not  read  vulgar  and 
empty  books,  even  for  simple  amusement,  without 
an  effect  upon  his  own  mind.  The  Chinese  are 
said  to  have  matches  in  which  cockroaches  are 
pitted  against  each  other  to  fight  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  oblique -eyed  heathen.  To  be  thus 
ignoble  in  their  very  sports  indicates  a  peculiar 
degradation  and  poverty  of  spirit ;  and  there  are 
certain  novels  so  much  in  the  same  line  that  it  is 
difficult  to  think  of  their  being  read  without  seeing 
in  fancy  a  group  of  pig-tailed  Celestials  hanging 
breathlessly  over  a  bowl  in  which  struggle  the  dis- 
gusting little  insect  combatants.  To  give  the  mind 
up  to  this  sort  of  reading  is  not  to  be  commended 
in  anybody. 


FICTION  AND  LIFE  211 

Fortunately  we  are  in  this  day  provided  with  a 
great  deal  of  light  fiction  which  is  sound  and  whole- 
some and  genuine  as  far  as  it  goes.  Some  of  it 
even  goes  far  in  the  way  of  being  imaginative  and 
good.  As  examples  —  not  at  all  as  a  list  —  may 
be  named  Blackmore,  Crawford,  Stanley  Weyman, 
Anthony  Hope,  or  the  numerous  writers  of  ad- 
mirable short  stories,  Cable,  Miss  Jewett,  Miss 
Wilkins,  J.  M.  Barrie,  Ian  Maclaren,  or  Thomas 
Nelson  Page.  All  these  and  others  may  be  read 
for  simple  entertainment,  and  all  are  worth  read- 
ing for  some  more  or  less  strongly  marked  quality 
of  permanent  worth.  There  are  plenty  of  writers, 
too,  like  William  Black  and  Clark  RusseU  and 
Conan  Doyle,  concerning  the  lasting  value  of  whose 
stories  there  might  easily  be  a  question,  yet  who  do 
often  contrive  to  be  healthily  amusing,  and  who 
furnish  the  means  of  creating  a  pleasant  and  rest- 
ful vacuity  in  lives  otherwise  too  full.  Every 
reader  must  make  his  own  choice,  and  determine 
for  himself  how  much  picnicking  he  will  do  on  his 
way  up  the  hill  of  life.  If  he  is  wise  he  will  con- 
trive to  find  his  entertainment  chiefly  in  books 
which  besides  being  amusing  have  genuine  value ; 
and  he  will  at  least  see  to  it  that  his  intellectual 
dissipations  shall  be  with  the  better  of  such  books 
as  will  amuse  him  and  not  with  the  poorer. 

The  mention  of  the  short  story  brings  to  mind 
the  great  part  which  this  form  of  fiction  plays  to- 
day. The  restlessness  of  the  age  and  the  fostering 
influence  of  the  magazines  have  united  to  develop 
the  short  story,  and  it  has  become  one  of  the  most 


212  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

marked  of  the  literary  features  of  the  time.  It 
has  the  advantage  of  being  easily  handled  and 
comprehended  as  a  whole,  but  it  lessens  the  power 
of  seizing  in  their  entirety  works  which  are  greater. 
It  tends  rather  to  increase  than  to  diminish  mental 
restlessness,  and  the  lover  of  short  stories  will  do 
well  not  to  let  any  considerable  length  of  time  go 
by  without  reading  some  long  and  far-reaching 
novel  by  way  of  corrective.  Another  consequence 
of  the  wide  popularity  of  the  short  story  is  that 
we  have  nowadays  so  few  additions  to  that  delight- 
ful company  of  fictitious  yet  most  admirably  real 
personages  whose  acquaintance  the  reader  makes 
in  longer  tales.  The  delight  of  knowing  these 
characters  is  not  only  one  of  the  most  attractive 
joys  of  novel-reading,  but  it  is  one  which  helps 
greatly  to  brighten  life  and  enhance  friendship. 
Few  things  add  more  to  the  sympathy  of  comrade- 
ship than  a  community  of  friends  in  the  enchanted 
realms  of  the  imagination.  Strangers  in  the  flesh 
become  instantly  conscious  of  an  intimacy  in  sjjirit 
when  they  discover  a  common  love  for  some  char- 
acter in  fiction.  Two  men  may  be  strangers,  with 
no  common  acquaintances  in  the  flesh,  but  if  they 
discover  that  both  admire  Elizabeth  Bennet,  or 
Lizzie  Hexam,  or  Laura  Bell,  or  Ethel  Newcome ; 
that  both  are  familiar  friends  with  Pendennis,  or 
Warrington,  or  Harry  Eichmond,  or  Mulvaney,  or 
Alan  Breck,  or  Mowgli,  or  Zagloba ;  or  belong 
to  the  brave  brotherhood  of  D'Artagnan,  Athos, 
Porthos,  and  Aramis,  they  have  a  community  of 
sympathy  which  brings  them  very  close  together. 


FICTION  AND  LIFE  213 

It  is  seldom  and  indeed  almost  never  that  the 
short  story  gives  to  the  reader  this  sense  of  know- 
ing familiarly  its  characters.  If  there  be  a  series, 
as  in  Kipling's  "  Jungle  Book  "  or  Maclaren's  tales, 
where  the  same  actors  appear  again  and  again,  of 
course  the  effect  may  be  in  this  respect  the  same 
as  that  of  a  novel ;  but  cases  of  this  sort  are  not 
common.  All  the  aged  women  of  Miss  Wilkins' 
stories,  for  instance,  are  apt  in  the  memory  either 
to  blend  into  one  composite  photograph  of  the  New 
England  old  woman,  or  to  stand  remotely,  not  as 
persons  that  we  know,  but  rather  as  types  about 
which  we  know.  The  genuine  novel-reader  will 
realize  that  this  consideration  is  really  one  of  no 
inconsiderable  weight ;  and  it  is  one  which  becomes 
more  and  more  pressing  with  the  increase  of  the 
influence  of  the  short  story. 

This  consideration  is  the  more  important  from 
the  fact  that  novels  in  which  the  reader  is  able  to 
identify  himself  with  the  characters  are  by  far  the 
most  effective,  because  thus  is  he  removed  from 
the  realities  which  surround  him,  and  for  the  time 
being  freed  from  whatever  woidd  hamper  his  ima- 
gination. That  which  in  real  life  he  would  be,  but 
may  not,  he  may  in  fiction  blissfully  and  expand- 
ingly  realize.  The  innate  sense  of  justice  —  not, 
perhaps,  unseconded  by  the  innate  vanity;  we  are 
all  of  us  human !  —  demands  that  human  possibili- 
ties shall  be  realized,  and  in  the  story  in  which  the 
reader  merges  his  personality  in  that  of  some  actor, 
all  this  is  accomplished.  In  actual  outward  experi- 
ence life  justifies  itself  but  rarely ;  to  most  men  its 


214  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

justification  is  reached  only  by  the  aid  of  the  im- 
agination, and  it  is  largely  by  the  aid  of  literature 
that  the  imagination  works.  Even  more  true  is 
this  of  the  other  sex.  Much  that  men  learn  from 
life  women  must  learn  from  books ;  so  that  to  wo- 
men fiction  is  the  primer  of  life  as  well  as  the  text- 
book of  the  imagination.  By  the  novels  he  reads 
the  man  gives  evidence  of  his  imaginative  develop^ 
ment ;  the  woman  of  her  intellectual  existence. 

Fiction  should  be  delightful,  absorbing,  and 
above  all  inspiring.  Genuine  art  may  sadden,  but 
it  cannot  depress ;  it  may  bring  a  fresh  sense  of 
the  anguish  of  humanity,  but  it  must  from  its  very 
nature  join  with  this  the  consolation  of  an  ideal. 
The  tragedy  of  human  life  is  in  art  held  to  be 
the  source  of  new  courage,  of  nobler  aspiration, 
because  it  gives  grander  opportunities  for  human 
emotion  to  vindicate  its  superiority  to  all  disasters, 
all  terrors,  all  woe.  The  reader  does  not  leave  the 
great  tragedies  with  a  soured  mind  or  a  pessimistic 
disbelief  in  life.  "Lear,"  "Othello,"  "Romeo 
and  Juliet,"  tragic  as  they  are,  leave  him  quiver- 
ing with  sympathy  but  not  with  bitterness.  The 
inspiration  of  the  thought  of  love  triumphant  over 
death,  of  moral  grandeur  unsubdued  by  the  worst 
that  fate  can  do,  lifts  the  mind  above  the  disaster. 
One  puts  down  "  The  Kreutzer  Sonata  "  with  the 
very  flesh  creeping  with  disgust  at  human  exist- 
ence ;  the  same  sin  is  treated  no  less  tragically  in 
"  The  Scarlet  Letter,"  yet  the  reader  is  left  with 
an  inspiration  and  a  nobler  feeling  toward  life. 
The  attitude  of  art  is  in  its  essence  hopeful,  and 


FICTION  AND  LIFE  215 

the  work  of  the  pessimist  must  therefore  fail,  even 
though  it  be  informed  with  all  the  cleverness  and 
the  witchery  of  genius. 

It  is,  I  believe,  from  something  akin  to  a  remote 
and  perhaps  half -conscious  perception  of  this  prin- 
ciple that  readers  in  general  desire  that  a  novel 
shall  end  pleasantly.  The  popular  sentiment  in 
favor  of  a  '*  happy  ending  "  is  by  no  means  so 
entirely  wrong  or  so  utterly  Philistine  as  it  is  the 
fashion  in  these  super-aesthetical  days  to  assume. 
The  trick  of  a  doleful  conclusion  has  masqued  and 
paraded  as  a  sure  proof  of  artistic  inspiration  when 
it  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  Unhappy  endings  may 
be  more  common  than  happy  ones  in  life,  although 
even  that  proposition  is  by  no  means  proved  ;  they 
seem  so  from  the  human  habit  of  marking  the  dis- 
agreeables and  letting  pleasant  things  go  unnoted. 
Writers  of  a  certain  school  have  assumed  from  this 
that  they  were  keeping  more  close  to  life  if  they 
left  the  reader  at  the  close  of  a  story  in  a  state  of 
darkest  melancholy ;  and  they  have  made  much 
parade  of  the  claim  that  this  is  not  only  more  true 
to  fact,  but  more  artistic.  There  is  no  reason  for 
such  an  assumption.  The  artistic  climax  of  a  tale 
is  that  which  grows  out  of  the  story  by  compelling 
necessity.  There  are  many  narrations,  of  course, 
which  would  become  essentially  false  if  made  to 
end  gladly.  When  the  ingenious  Frenchman  re- 
wrote the  last  act  of  "  Hamlet,"  marrying  off  the 
Prince  and  dismissing  him  with  Ophelia  to  live 
happily  ever  after,  the  thing  was  monstrously  ab- 
surd.    The  general  public  is  not  wholly  blind  to 


216  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

these  things.  No  audience  educated  up  to  the 
point  of  enjoying  "  Hamlet  "  or  "  Othello  "  at  all 
would  be  satisfied  with  a  sugar-candy  conclusion 
to  these.  The  public  does  ask,  however,  and  asks 
justly,  that  there  shall  be  no  meaningless  agony ; 
and  if  it  prefers  tales  which  inevitably  come  to  a 
cheerful  last  chapter,  this  taste  is  in  the  line  with 
the  great  principle  that  it  is  the  function  of  art  to 
uplift  and  inspire. 

It  has  already  been  said  over  and  over  that  it  is 
the  office  of  literature  to  show  the  meaning  of  life, 
and  the  meaning  of  life  is  not  only  what  it  is  but 
what  it  may  be.  To  paint  the  actualities  of  life  is 
only  to  state  a  problem,  and  it  is  the  mission  of  art 
to  offer  a  solution.  The  novel  which  can  go  no 
further  than  the  presentation  of  the  apparent  fact 
is  from  the  higher  standpoint  futile  because  it  fails 
to  indicate  the  meaning  of  that  fact ;  it  falls  short 
as  art  in  so  far  as  it  fails  to  justify  existence. 

Lowell  complains :  — 

Modern  imaginative  literature  has  become  so  self- 
conscious,  and  therefore  so  melancholy,  that  Art, 
which  should  be  "the  world's  sweet  inn,"  whither  we 
repair  for  refreshment  and  repose,  has  become  rather 
a  watering-place,  where  one's  private  touch  of  liver- 
complaint  is  exasperated  by  the  affluence  of  other  suf- 
ferers whose  talk  is  a  narrative  of  morbid  symptoms. 
—  Chaucer. 

We  have  introduced  into  fiction  that  popular 
and  delusive  fallacy  of  emotional  socialism  which 
insists  not  so  much  that  all  shall  share  the  best  of 
life,  as  that  none  shall  escape  its  worst.    The  claim 


FICTION  AND  LIFE  217 

that  all  shall  be  acquainted  with  every  phase  of 
life  is  enforced  not  by  an  endeavor  to  make  each 
reader  a  sharer  in  the  joys  and  blessings  of  exist- 
ence, but  by  a  determined  thrusting  forward  of  the 
pains  and  shames  of  humanity.  Modern  literature 
has  too  generally  made  the  profession  of  treating 
all  facts  of  life  impartially  a  mere  excuse  for  deal- 
ing exclusively  with  whatever  is  ugly  and  degraded, 
and  for  dragging  to  light  whatever  has  been  con- 
cealed. This  is  at  best  as  if  one  used  rare  cups  of 
Venetian  glass  for  the  measuring  out  of  commercial 
kerosene  and  vinegar,  or  precious  Grecian  urns  for 
the  gathering  up  of  the  refuse  of  the  streets. 

The  wise  student  of  literature  will  never  lose 
sio^ht  of  the  fact  that  fiction  which  has  not  in  it 
an  inspiration  is  to  be  looked  upon  as  ineffectual, 
if  it  is  not  to  be  avoided  as  morbid  and  unwhole- 
some. Fiction  may  be  sad,  it  may  deal  with  the 
darker  side  of  existence ;  but  it  shoidd  leave  the 
reader  with  the  uplift  which  comes  from  the  per- 
ception that  there  is  in  humanity  the  power  to  rise 
by  elevation  of  spirit  above  the  bitterest  blight,  to 
triumph  over  the  most  cruel  circumstances  which 
can  befall. 

One  word  must  be  added  in  conclusion,  and  that 
is  the  warning  that  fiction  can  never  take  the  place 
of  actual  life.  There  is  danger  in  all  art  that 
it  may  win  men  from  interest  in  real  existence. 
Literature  is  after  all  but  the  interpreter  of  life, 
and  living  is  more  than  all  imaginative  experience. 
We  need  both  the  book  and  the  deed  to  round  out 
a  full  and  rich  being.     It  is  possible  to  abuse  liter- 


218  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

ature  as  it  is  possible  to  abuse  any  other  gift  of  the 
gods.  It  is  not  impossible  to  stultify  and  benumb 
the  mind  by  too  much  novel-reading ;  but  of  this 
there  is  no  need.  Fiction  properly  used  and  en- 
joyed is  one  of  the  greatest  blessings  of  civiliza 
tion ;  and  how  poor  and  thin  and  meagre  would 
life  be  without  it ! 


I 

i 


XVI 

POETRY 

The  lover  of  literature  must  approach  any  dis- 
cussion of  poetry  with  feelings  of  mingled  delight 
and  dread.  The  subject  is  one  which  can  hardly 
fail  to  excite  him  to  enthusiasm,  but  it  is  one  with 
which  it  is  difficult  to  deal  without  a  declaration  of 
sentiments  so  strong  that  they  are  not  likely  to  be 
spoken ;  and  it  is  one,  too,  upon  which  so  much 
has  been  said  crudely  and  carelessly,  or  wisely  and 
warmly,  that  any  writer  must  hesitate  to  add  any- 
thing to  the  abundance  of  words  already  spoken. 

For  there  have  been  few  things  so  voluminously 
discussed  as  poetry.  It  is  a  theme  so  high  that 
sages  could  not  leave  it  unpraised ;  while  there  is 
never  a  penny-a-liner  so  poor  or  so  mean  that  he 
hesitates  to  write  his  essay  upon  the  sublime  and 
beautiful  art.  It  is  one  of  the  consequences  of 
human  vanity  that  the  more  subtile  and  difficult  a 
matter,  the  more  feeble  minds  feel  called  upon  to 
cover  it  with  the  dust  of  their  empty  phrases.  The 
\nost  crowded  places  are  those  where  angels  fear  to 
tread  ;  and  it  is  with  reverence  not  unmixed  with 
fear  that  any  true  admirer  ventures  to  speak  even 
his  love  for  the  noble  art  of  poetry.  No  discus- 
sion of  the  study  of  literature,  however,  can  leave 


220  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

out  of  the  account  that  which  is  literature's  crown 
and  glory ;  and  of  the  much  that  might  be  said  and 
must  be  felt,  an  effort  must  be  made  here  to  set 
something  down. 

There  are  few  characteristics  more  general  in 
the  race  of  man  than  that  responsiveness  to  rhythm 
which  is  the  foundation  of  the  love  of  verse.  The 
sense  of  symmetry  exists  in  the  rudest  savage  that 
tattoos  the  two  sides  of  his  face  in  the  same  pattern, 
or  strings  his  necklace  of  shells  in  alternating 
colors.  The  same  feeling  is  shown  by  the  unges- 
thetic  country  matron,  the  mantel  of  whose  sacredly 
dark  and  cold  best  room  is  not  to  her  eye  properly 
adorned  unless  the  ugly  vase  at  one  end  is  balanced 
by  another  exactly  similar  ugly  vase  upon  the 
other.  In  sound  the  instinct  is  yet  more  strongly 
marked.  The  barbaric  drum-beat  which  tells  in 
the  quivering  sunlight  of  an  African  noon  that  the 
cannibalistic  feast  is  preparing  appeals  crudely  to 
the  same  quality  of  the  human  mind  which  in  its 
refinement  responds  to  the  swelling  cadences  of 
Mendelssohn's  Wedding  March  or  the  majestic 
measures  of  the  Ninth  Symphony.  The  rhythm 
of  the  voice  in  symmetrically  arranged  words  is 
equally  potent  in  its  ability  to  give  pleasure.  Sav- 
age tribes  make  the  beginnings  of  literature  in 
inchoate  verse.  Indeed,  so  strongly  does  poetry 
appeal  to  men  even  in  the  earlier  states  of  civiliza- 
tion that  Macaulay  seems  to  have  conceived  the 
idea  that  poetry  belongs  to  an  immature  stage  of 
growth,  —  a  deduction  not  unlike  supposing  the 


POETRY  221 

sun  to  be  of  no  consequence  to  civilization  because 
it  has  been  worshiped  by  savages.  In  the  earlier 
phases  of  human  development,  whether  of  the  indi- 
vidual or  of  the  race,  the  universal  instincts  are 
more  apparent ;  and  the  hold  which  song  takes 
upon  half-barbaric  man  is  simply  a  proof  of  how 
primal  and  universal  is  the  taste  to  which  it  ap- 
peals. The  sense  and  enjoyment  of  rhythm  show 
themselves  in  a  hundred  ways  in  the  life  and  pleas- 
ures of  primitive  races,  the  vigorous  shoots  from 
which  is  to  spring  a  splendid  growth. 

Not  to  go  so  far  back  as  the  dawn  of  civilization, 
however,  it  is  sufficient  here  to  recall  our  own  days 
in  the  nursery,  when  Mother  Goose,  the  only  uni- 
versal Alma  Mater,  with  rhymes  foolish  but  rhyth- 
mical, meaningless  but  musical,  delighted  ears  yet 
too  untrained  to  distinguish  sense  from  folly,  but 
not  too  young  to  enjoy  the  delight  of  the  beating 
of  the  voice  in  metrically  arranged  accents. 

This  pleasure  in  rhythm  is  persistent,  and  it  is 
strongly  marked  even  in  untrained  minds.  In  na- 
tures unspoiled  and  healthy,  natures  not  bewildered 
and  sophisticated  by  a  false  idea  of  cultivation,  or 
deceived  into  unsound  notions  of  the  real  value  of 
poetry,  the  taste  remains  sound  and  good.  In  the 
youth  of  a  race  this  natural  enjoyment  of  verse  is 
gratified  by  folk-songs.  These  early  forms  are 
naturally  undeveloped  and  simple,  but  the  lays 
are  genuine  and  wholesome;  they  possess  lasting 
quality.  Different  peoples  have  in  differing  de- 
grees the  power  of  appreciating  verse,  but  I  do  not 
know  that  any  race  has  been  found  to  lack  it  en- 


222  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

tirely.  There  is  abundant  evidence  that  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  and  Norman  ancestors  from  whom  sprang 
the  English-speaking  peoples  were  in  this  respect 
richly  endowed,  and  that  they  early  went  far  in  the 
development  of  this  power.  The  old  ballads  of  our 
language  are  so  rich  and  so  enduringly  beautiful 
that  we  are  proved  to  come  from  a  stock  endowed 
with  a  rich  susceptibility  to  poetry.  If  this  taste 
has  not  been  generally  developed  it  is  from  some 
reason  other  than  racial  incapacity.  Nothing  need 
be  looked  for  in  early  literatures  sweeter  and 
sounder  than  the  fine  old  ballads  of  "Chevy 
Chace,"  "Tamlane,"  "Sir  Patrick  Spens,"  or 
"Clerk  Saunders."  Many  a  later  poet  of  no 
mean  reputation  has  failed  to  strike  so  deep  and 
true  a  note  as  rings  through  these  songs  made 
by  forgotten  minstrels  for  a  ballad-loving  people. 
There  are  not  too  many  English-speaking  poets 
to-day  who  could  match  the  cry  of  the  wraith  of 
Clerk  Saunders  at  the  window  of  his  love :  — 

Oh,  cocks  are  crowing  a  merry  midnight, 

The  wild  fowls  are  boding  day ; 
Give  me  my  faith  and  troth  again, 

Let  me  fare  on  my  way.  .  .  . 

Cauld  mould  it  is  my  covering  now, 

But  and  my  winding  sheet ; 
The  dew  it  falls  nae  sooner  down 

Than  my  resting-place  is  weet ! 

How  far  popular  taste  has  departed  from  an 
appreciation  of  verse  that  is  simple  and  genuine 
is  shown  by  those  favorite  rhymes  which  are  un- 
wearyingly  yearned  for  in  the  columns  of  Notes  and 


POETRY  223 

Queries,  and  which  reappear  with  periodic  persist- 
ence in  Answers  to  Correspondents.  In  educated 
persons,  it  is  true,  there  is  still  a  love  of  what  is 
really  good  in  verse,  but  it  is  far  too  rare.  The 
general  ear  and  the  general  taste  have  become 
vitiated.  There  is  a  melancholy  and  an  amazing 
number  of  readers  who  are  pleased  only  with 
rhymes  of  the  sort  of  Will  Carleton's  "  Farm  Bal- 
lads," the  sentimentally  inane  jingles  published  in 
the  feminine  domestic  periodicals,  and  the  rest  of 
what  might  be  called,  were  not  the  phrase  peril- 
ously near  to  the  vulgar,  the  chewing-gum  school 
of  verse. 

One  of  the  most  serious  defects  in  modern  sys- 
tems of  education  seems  to  me  to  be,  as  has  been 
said  in  an  earlier  talk,  an  insufficient  provision  for 
the  development  of  the  imagination.  This  is  no- 
where more  marked  than  in  the  failure  to  recog- 
nize the  place  and  importance  of  poetry  in  the 
training  of  the  mind  of  youth.  It  might  be  sup- 
posed that  an  age  which  prides  itself  upon  being 
scientific  in  its  methods  would  be  clever  enough  to 
perceive  that  from  the  early  stages  of  civilization 
may  well  be  taken  hints  for  the  development  of  the 
intellect  of  the  young.  Primitive  peoples  have  in- 
variably nourished  their  growing  intelligence  and 
enlarged  their  imagination  by  fairy-lore  and  poetry. 
The  childhood  of  the  individual  is  in  its  essentials 
not  widely  dissimilar  from  the  childhood  of  the 
race ;  and  what  was  the  instinctive  and  wholesome 
food  for  one  is  good  for  the  other.  If  our  common 
schools  could  but  omit  a  good  deal  of  the  instruc- 


224  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

tion  which  is  falsely  called  "  practical,"  because  it 
deals  with  material  issues,  and  devote  the  time  thus 
gained  to  training  children  to  enjoy  poetry  and  to 
use  their  imagination,  the  results  would  be  incalcu- 
lably better.^ 

The  strain  and  stress  of  modern  life  are  opposed 
to  the  appreciation  of  any  art ;  and  in  the  case  of 
poetry  this  difficulty  has  been  increased  by  a  wide- 
spread feeling  that  poetry  is  after  all  of  little  real 
consequence.  It  has  been  held  to  be  an  excrescence 
upon  life  rather  than  an  essential  part  of  it.  It  is 
the  tendency  of  the  time  to  seek  for  tangible  and 
present  results ;  and  men  have  too  generally  ceased 
to  appreciate  the  fact  that  much  which  is  best  is  to 
be  reached  more  surely  indirectly  than  directly. 
Since  of  the  effects  which  spring  from  poetry  those 
most  of  worth  are  its  remote  and  intangible  results, 
careless  and  superficial  thinkers  have  come  to  look 
upon  song  as  an  unmanly  affectation,  a  thing  arti- 
ficial if  not  effeminate.  This  is  one  of  the  most 
absolute  and  vicious  of  all  intellectual  errors.  In 
high  and  noble  truth,  poetry  is  as  natural  as  air ; 
poetry  is  as  virile  as  war ! 

It  is  not  easy  to  discover  whence  arose  the  popu- 

1  I  say  to  enjoy  poetry.  There  is  much  well-meant  instruction 
which  is  unconsciously  conducive  to  nothing  but  its  detestation. 
Students  who  by  nature  have  a  fondness  for  verse  are  laboriously 
trained  by  conscientiously  mistaken  instructors  to  regard  anything 
in  poetical  form  as  a  bore  and  a  torment.  The  business  of  a 
teacher  in  a  preparatory  school  should  be  to  incite  the  pupil  to 
love  poetry.  It  is  better  to  make  a  boy  thrill  and  kindle  over  a 
single  line  than  it  is  to  get  into  his  head  all  the  comments  made 
on  literature  from  the  beginning  of  time. 


POETRY  225 

lar  feeling  of  the  insignificance  of  poetry.  It  is 
allied  to  the  materialistic  undervaluing  of  all  art, 
and  it  is  probably  not  unconnected  with  the  ascetic 
idea  that  whatever  ministers  to  earthly  delight  is 
a  hindrance  to  progress  toward  the  unseen  life  of 
another  world.  Something  is  to  be  attributed,  no 
doubt,  to  the  contempt  bred  by  worthless  imita- 
tions with  which  facile  poetasters  have  afflicted  a 
long-suffering  world ;  but  most  of  all  is  the  want 
of  an  appreciation  of  the  value  of  poetry  to  be  at- 
tributed to  the  fact  that  men  engrossed  in  literal 
and  material  concerns  have  not  been  able  to  appre- 
ciate remote  consequences,  or  to  comprehend  the 
utterances  of  the  masters  who  speak  the  language 
of  the  imagination. 

While  the  world  in  general,  however,  has  been 
increasingly  unsympathetic  toward  poetry,  the  sages 
have  universally  concurred  in  giving  to  it  the 
highest  place  in  the  list  of  literary  achievements. 
"  Poetry,"  Emerson  said,  "  is  the  only  verity." 
The  same  thought  is  expanded  in  a  passage  from 
Mrs.  Browning,  in  which  she  speaks  of  poets  as 

—  the  only  truth-tellers  now  left  to  God,  — 
The  only  speakers  of  essential  truth, 
Opposed  to  relative,  comparative. 
And  temporal  truths ;  the  only  holders  by 
His  sun-skirts,  through  conventual  gray  glooms ; 
The  only  teachers  who  instruct  mankind 
From  just  a  shadow  on  a  charnel  wall 
To  find  man's  veritable  stature  out. 
Erect,  sublime,  — the  measure  of  a  man. 

— .Aurora  Leigh 

So  Wordsworth :  — 


226  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

Poetry  is  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all  know- 
ledge, it  is  the  impassioned  expression  which  is  on  the 
face  of  all  science. 

It  is  needless,  however,  to  multiply  quotations. 
The  world  has  never  doubted  the  high  respect 
which  those  who  appreciate  poetry  have  for  the 
art. 

It  is  true  also  that  however  general  at  any  time 
may  have  been  the  seeming  or  real  neglect  of  poetry, 
the  race  has  not  failed  to  preserve  its  great  poems. 
The  prose  of  the  past,  no  matter  how  great  its  wis- 
dom, has  never  been  able  to  take  with  succeeding 
generations  the  rank  held  by  the  masterpieces  of 
the  poets.  Mankind  has  seemed  not  unlike  one 
who  affects  to  hold  his  jewels  in  little  esteem,  it 
may  be,  yet  like  the  jewel  owner  it  has  guarded 
them  with  constant  jealousy.  The  honor-roll  of 
literature  is  the  world's  list  of  great  poets.  The 
student  of  literature  is  not  long  in  discovering  that 
his  concern  is  far  more  largely  with  verse  than  with 
anything  else  that  the  wit  of  mankind  has  devised 
to  write.  However  present  neglect  may  at  any 
time  appear  to  show  the  contrary,  the  long-abiding 
regard  of  the  race  declares  beyond  peradventure 
that  it  counts  poetry  as  most  precious  among  all 
its  intellectual  treasures. 


XVII 

THE  TEXTUKE   OF  POETRY 

In  discussing  poetry  it  is  once  more  necessary  to 
begin  with  something  which  will  serve  us  as  a  defi- 
nition. No  man  can  imprison  the  essence  of  an 
art  in  words ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  understood  that  a 
formal  definition  can  be  framed  which  shall  express 
all  that  poetry  is  and  means.  Its  more  obvious 
characteristics,  however,  may  be  phrased,  and  even 
an  incomplete  formula  is  often  useful.  There  have 
been  almost  as  many  definitions  of  poetry  made 
already  as  there  have  been  writers  on  literature, 
some  of  them  intelligible  and  some  of  them  open 
to  the  charge  of  incomprehensibility.  Schopen- 
hauer, for  instance,  defined  poetry  as  the  art  of 
exciting  by  words  the  power  of  the  imagination  ;  a 
phrase  so  broad  that  it  is  easily  made  to  cover  all 
genuine  literature.  It  will  perhaps  be  sufficient 
for  our  purpose  here  if  we  say  that  poetry  is  the 
embodiment  in  metrical,  imaginative  language  of 
passionate  emotion. 

By  metrical  language  is  meant  that  which  is 
systematically  rhythmical.  Much  prose  is  rhyth- 
mical. Indeed  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  of  fine  or 
delicate  prose  which  has  not  rhythm  to  some  de- 
gree, and  oratorical  prose  is  usually  distinguished 


228  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

by  this.  The  Bible  abounds  in  excellent  examples ; 
as,  for  instance,  this  passage  from  Job  :  — 

Hell  is  naked  before  Him,  and  destruction  hath  no 
covering;  He  stretcheth  out  the  north  over  the  empty- 
place,  and  hangeth  the  earth  upon  nothing.  He  bind- 
eth  up  the  waters  in  his  thick  clouds ;  and  the  cloud 
is  not  rent  under  them.  He  holdeth  back  the  face  of 
His  throne,  and  spreadeth  His  cloud  upon  it.  He 
hath  compassed  the  waters  with  bounds  until  the  day 
and  night  come  to  an  end.  The  pillars  of  heaven 
tremble,  and  are  astonished  at  His  reproof.  He  divid- 
eth  the  sea  with  His  power,  and  by  His  understanding 
He  smiteth  through  the  proud.  — Joh,  xxvi.  6-12. 

Here,  as  in  all  fine  prose,  there  is  a  rhythm 
which  is  marked,  and  at  times  almost  regular ;  but 
it  is  not  ordered  by  a  system,  as  it  must  be  in  the 
simplest  verse  of  poetry.  Take,  by  way  of  con- 
trast, a  stanza  from  the  superb  chorus  to  Artemis 
in  "  Atalanta  in  Calydon ;  "  — 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of  quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers. 

With  a  clamor  of  waters  and  with  might ; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  0  thou  most  fleet. 
Over  the  splendor  and  speed  of  thy  feet ; 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west  shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the  night. 

Here  the  rhythm  is  systematized  according  to  reg- 
ular laws,  and  so  becomes  metrical.  The  effect 
upon  the  ear  in  prose  is  largely  due  to  rhythm,  but 
metrical  effects  are  entirely  within  the  province  of 
poetry. 

This  difference  between  rhythmical  and  metrical 
language  would  seem  to  be  sufficiently  obvious,  but 


THE  TEXTURE  OF  POETRY  229 

the  difficulty  which  many  students  have  in  appre- 
ciating it  may  make  it  worth  while  to  give  another 
illustration.  The  following  passage  from  Edmund 
Burke,  that  great  master  of  sonorous  English,  is 
strongly  and  finely  rhythmical :  — 

Because  we  are  so  made  as  to  be  affected  at  such 
spectacles  with  melancholy  sentiments  upon  the  un- 
stable condition  of  mortal  prosperity,  and  the  tre- 
mendous uncertainty  of  human  greatness;  because  in 
those  natural  feelings  we  learn  great  lessons;  because 
in  events  like  these  our  passions  instruct  our  reason; 
because  when  kings  are  hurled  from  their  thrones  by 
the  Supreme  Director  of  this  great  drama,  and  be- 
come objects  of  insult  to  the  base,  and  of  pity  to  the 
good,  we  behold  such  disasters  in  the  moral,  as  we 
should  behold  a  miracle  in  the  physical  order  of  things. 
—  Refiections  on  the  Revolution  in  France. 

So  markedly  rhythmical  is  this,  indeed,  that  it 
would  take  but  little  to  change  it  into  metre  :  — 

Because  we  are  so  made  as  to  be  moved  by  specta- 
cles like  these  with  melancholy  sentiments  of  the  un- 
stable case  of  mortal  things,  and  the  uncertainty  of 
human  greatness  here;  because  in  those  our  natural 
feelings  we  may  learn  great  lessons  too ;  because  in 
such  events  our  passions  teach  our  reason  well;  be- 
cause when  kings  are  hurled  down  from  their  thrones, 
etc. 

There  is  no  longer  any  dignity  in  this.  It  has  be- 
come a  sort  of  sing-song,  neither  prose  nor  yet 
poetry.  The  sentiments  are  not  unlike  those  of  a 
familiar  passage  in  Shakespeare  :  — 

This  is  the  state  of  man  ;  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hopes ;  to-morrow  blossoms, 


230  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him  : 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And,  —  when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening,  —  nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do. 

Henry  VIIL,  iii.  2. 

In  the  extract  from  Burke  a  sense  of  weakness 
and  even  of  flatness  is  produced  by  the  rearrange- 
ment of  the  accents  so  that  they  are  made  regular ; 
while  in  the  verse  of  Shakespeare  the  sensitive  ear 
is  very  likely  troubled  by  the  single  misplaced  ac- 
cent in  the  first  line.  In  any  mood  save  the  poetic 
metre  seems  an  artificiality  and  an  affectation,  but 
in  that  mood  it  is  as  natural  and  as  necessary  as 
air  to  the  lungs. 

Besides  being  metrical  the  language  of  poetry 
must  be  imaginative.  By  imaginative  language  is 
Tueant  that  which  not  only  conveys  imaginative 
conceptions,  but  which  is  itself  full  of  force  and 
suggestion;  language  which  not  only  expresses 
ideas  and  emotions,  but  which  by  its  own  power 
evokes  them.  Imaginative  language  is  marked  by 
the  most  vivid  perception  on  the  part  of  the  writer 
of  the  connotive  effect  of  words ;  it  conveys  even 
more  by  implication  than  by  direct  denotation.  It 
may  of  course  be  used  in  poetry  or  prose.  In  the 
passage  from  Job  just  quoted,  the  use  of  such 
phrases  as  "  empty  place,"  "  hangeth  the  earth 
upon  nothing,"  convey  more  by  what  they  suggest 
to  the  mind  than  by  their  literal  assertion.  The 
writer  has  evidently  used  them  with  a  vital  and 
vivid  understanding  of  their  suggestiveness.  He 
?^ealizes  to  the  full  their  office  to  convey  impression? 


THE  TEXTURE  OF  POETRY  231 

SO  subtle  that  they  cannot  be  given  by  direct  and 
literal  diction. 

Poetry  is  made  up  of  words  and  phrases  which 
glow  with  this  richness  of  intention.  When 
Shakespeare  speaks  of  skin  "smooth  as  monu- 
mental alabaster,"  how  much  is  added  to  the  idea 
by  the  epithet  "  monumental,"  the  suggestion  of 
the  polished  and  protected  stone,  enshrined  on  a 
tomb ;  how  much  is  due  to  association  and  impli- 
cation in  such  phrases  as  the  "  reverberate  hills," 
"  parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow,"  "  the  white  won- 
der of  dear  Juliet's  hand,"  "  and  sleep  in  dull,  cold 
marble,"  —  phrases  all  of  which  have  a  literal  sig- 
nificance plain  enough,  yet  of  which  this  literal 
meaning  is  of  small  account  beside  that  which  they 
evoke.  Poetic  diction  naturally  and  inevitably 
melts  into  figures,  as  when  we  read  of  "  the  shade 
of  melancholy  boughs,"  "  the  spendthrift  sun," 
"  the  bubble  reputation,"  "  the  inaudible  and  noise- 
less foot  of  time;  "  but  the  point  here  is  that  even 
in  its  literal  words  there  is  constantly  the  sense  and 
the  employment  of  implied  meanings.  It  is  by  no 
means  necessarily  figures  to  which  language  owes 
the  quality  of  being  imaginative.  Broadly  speak- 
ing, a  style  may  be  said  to  be  imaginative  in  pro- 
portion as  the  writer  has  realized  and  intended  its 
suggestions. 

The  language  of  prose  is  often  imaginative  to  a 
high  degree,  but  seldom  if  ever  to  that  extent  or 
with  that  deliberate  purpose  which  in  verse  is  no- 
'^hing  less  than  essential.  Genuine  poetry  differs 
Jrom  prose  in  the  entire  texture  of  its  web.     From 


232  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

the  same  threads  the  loom  may  weave  plain  stuff 
or  richest  brocade ;  and  thus  of  much  the  same 
words  are  made  prose  and  poetry.  The  difference 
lies  chiefly  in  the  fashion  of  working. 

The  essentials  of  the  manner  of  poetry  being 
language  metrical  and  imaginative,  the  essential 
of  the  matter  is  that  it  be  the  expression  of  pas- 
sionate emotion.  By  passionate  emotion  is  meant 
any  feeling,  powerful  or  delicate,  which  is  capable 
of  filling  the  whole  soul ;  of  taking  possession  for 
the  time  being  of  the  entire  man.  It  may  be  fierce 
hate,  enthralling  love,  ambition,  lust,  rage,  jealousy, 
joy,  sorrow,  any  over-mastering  mood,  or  it  may  be 
one  of  those  intangible  inclinations,  those  moods  of 
mist,  ethereal  as  hazes  in  October,  those  caprices 
of  pleasure  or  sadness  which  Tennyson  had  the  art 
so  marvelously  to  reproduce.  Passionate  emotion 
is  by  no  means  necessarily  intense,  but  it  is  en- 
grossing. For  the  time  being,  at  least,  it  seems  to 
absorb  the  whole  inner  consciousness. 

It  is  the  completeness  with  which  such  a  mood 
takes  possession  of  the  mind,  so  that  for  the  mo- 
ment it  is  to  all  intents  and  purposes  the  man 
himself,  that  gives  it  so  great  an  importance  in 
human  life  and  makes  it  the  fitting  and  the  sole 
essential  theme  of  the  highest  art.  Behind  all 
serious  human  effort  lies  the  instinctive  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things.  The  artist  must  always  con- 
vince that  his  end  is  worthy  of  the  means  which 
he  employs  to  reach  it ;  and  it  follows  naturally 
that  the  writer  who  uses  imaginative  diction  and 
the  elaborateness  of  metre   must  justify  this  by 


THE  TEXTURE  OF  POETRY  233 

what  he  embodies  in  them.  Metrical  forms  are  as 
much  out  of  place  in  treating  of  the  material  con- 
cerns of  life  as  would  be  court  robes  or  religious 
rites  in  the  reaping  of  a  field  or  the  selling  of  a 
cargo  of  wool.  The  poet  is  justified  in  his  use  of 
all  the  resources  of  form  and  of  poetic  diction  by 
the  fact  that  the  message  which  he  is  endeavoring  to 
convey  is  high  and  noble ;  that  the  meaning  which 
he  attempts  to  impart  is  so  profoundly  subtle  as  to 
be  inexpressible  unless  the  words  which  he  employs 
are  assisted  by  the  language  of  rhythm  and  metre. 
That  the  reader  unconsciously  recognizes  the 
fact  that  the  essential  difference  in  the  office  of 
prose  and  poetry  makes  inevitable  a  difference  also 
of  method,  is  shown  by  his  dissatisfaction  when 
the  writer  of  prose  invades  the  province  of  poetry. 
The  arrangement  of  the  words  of  prose  into  sys- 
tematic rhythm  produces  at  once  an  effect  of  weak- 
ness and  of  insincerity.  Dickens  in  some  of  his 
attempts  to  reach  deep  pathos  has  made  his  prose 
metrical  with  results  most  disastrous.  The  mood 
of  poetry  is  so  elevated  that  metrical  conventions 
seem  appropriate  and  natural ;  whereas  in  the  mood 
of  even  the  most  emotional  prose  they  appear  fan- 
tastical and  affected.  The  difference  is  not  unlike 
that  between  the  speaking  and  the  singing  voice. 
A  man  who  sang  in  conversation,  or  even  in  a 
highly  excited  oration,  would  simply  make  himself 
ridiculous.  In  song  this  manner  of  using  the  voice 
is  not  only  natural  but  inevitable  and  delightful. 
What  would  be  uncalled  for  in  the  most  exalted 
moods  of  the  prose  writer  is  natural  and  fitting  in 


234  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

the  case  of  the  poet,  because  the  poet  is  endeavor- 
ing to  embody,  in  language  the  most  deep,  the  most 
high,  the  most  delicate  experiences  of  which  human- 
ity is  capable.  The  form  is  with  him  a  part  of  his 
normal  language.  To  say  in  prose  :  "  My  love  is 
like  a  red  rose  newly  sprung  in  June,  or  like  a 
melody  beautifully  played,"  means  not  much.  Yet 
the  words  themselves  are  not  widely  varied  from 
those  in  which  Burns  conveys  the  same  ideas  with 
so  great  an  added  beauty,  and  so  much  more  emo- 
tional force :  — 

Oh,  my  luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose 

That 's  newly  sprung  in  June ; 
Oh,  my  luve  's  like  a  melodie 

That 's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

The  metrical  cadences  woo  the  ear  like  those  of  a 
melody  sweetly  played,  and  to  that  which  the  words 
may  say  or  suggest  they  add  an  effect  yet  more 
potent  and  delightful. 

A  moment's  consideration  of  these  facts  enables 
one  to  estimate  rightly  the  stricture  made  by 
Plato:  — 

You  have  often  seen  what  a  poor  appearance  the 
tales  of  poets  make  when  stripped  of  the  colors  which 
music  puts  upon  them,  and  recited  in  prose.  They  are 
like  faces  which  were  never  really  beautiful,  but  only 
blooming,  and  now  the  bloom  of  youth  has  passed  away 
from  them. 

It  would  be  more  just  and  more  exact  to  say 
that  they  are  like  the  framework  of  a  palace  from 
which  have  been  stripped  the  slabs  of  precious 
marble  which  covered  it.     It  is  neither  more  nor 


I 


A 


THE  TEXTURE  OF  POETRY  235 

less  reasonable  to  object  to  poetry  that  its  theme 
told  in  prose  is  slight  or  dull  than  it  would  be  to 
scorn  St.  Peter's  because  its  rafters  and  ridgepole 
might  not  be  attractive  if  they  stood  out  bare 
against  the  sky.  The  form  is  in  poetry  as  much 
an  integral  part  as  walls  and  roof  and  dome,  statues 
and  jewel-like  marbles,  are  part  of  the  temple. 

Leaving  out  of  consideration  those  peculiarities 
such  as  rhyme  and  special  diction,  which  although 
often  of  much  effect  are  not  essential  since  poetry 
may  be  great  without  them,  it  is  sufficiently  exact 
for  a  general  examination  to  say  that  the  effects 
of  poetry  are  produced  by  the  threefold  union  of 
ideas,  suggestion,  and  melody.  In  the  use  of  ideas 
poetry  is  on  much  the  same  footing  as  prose,  except 
in  so  far  as  it  deals  with  exalted  moods  which  have 
no  connection  with  thoughts  which  are  mean  or 
commonplace.  In  the  use  of  suggestion  poetry  but 
carries  farther  the  means  employed  in  imaginative 
prose.  Melody  may  be  said  practically  to  be  its 
own  prerogative.  The  smoothest  flow  of  rhythmi- 
cal prose  falls  far  below  the  melodious  cadences 
of  metrical  language  ;  and  in  this  manner  of  appeal 
to  the  senses  and  the  soul  of  man  verse  has  no  rival 
save  music  itself. 

These  three  qualities  may  be  examined  sepa- 
rately. Verse  may  be  found  in  which  there  is 
almost  nothing  but  melody,  divorced  from  sugges- 
tion or  ideas.  There  are  good  examples  in  Edward 
Lear's  "  Nonsense  Songs,"  in  which  there  is  an  in- 
tentional lack  of  sense ;  or  in  the  "  Alice  "  books, 
as,  for  instance :  — 


236  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

And  as  in  uffish  thought  he  stood, 
The  Jabberwock,  with  eyes  of  flame, 

Came  whiffling  through  the  tulgy  wood, 
And  burbled  as  it  came !  .  .  . 

*'  And  hast  thou  slain  the  Jabberwock  ? 
Come  to  my  arms,  my  beamish  boy  ! 
O  frabjous  day !  CaUooh!  CaUay!" 
He  chortled  in  his  joy. 

Or  one  may  take  something  wLicli  will  convey  no 
idea  and  no  suggestion  beyond  that  which  comes 
with  sound  and  rhythm.  Here  is  a  verse  once 
made  in  sport  to  pass  as  a  folk-song  in  an  unknown 
tongue :  — 

Apaulthee  kong  lay  laylarthay ; 

Ameeta  tinta  prown. 
Lay  lista,  lay  larba,  lay  moona  long, 
Toolay  ^chola  doundoolay  koko  elph  zong, 

Im  lay  melplartha  bountaina  brown. 

This  is  a  collection  of  unmeaning  syllables,  and  yet 
to  the  ear  it  is  a  pleasure.  The  examples  may 
seem  trivial,  but  they  serve  to  illustrate  the  fact 
that  there  is  magic  in  the  mere  sound  of  words, 
meaning  though  they  have  none. 

The  possibility  of  pleasing  solely  by  the  arrange- 
ment and  choice  of  words  in  verse  has  been  a  snare 
to  more  than  one  poet ;  as  a  neglect  of  melody  has 
been  the  fault  of  others.  In  much  of  the  later 
work  of  Swinburne  it  is  evident  that  the  poet  be- 
came intoxicated  with  the  mere  beauty  of  sound, 
and  forgot  that  poetry  demands  thought  as  well 
as  melody ;  while  the  reader  is  reluctantly  forced 
to  acknowledge  that  in  some  of  the  verse  of  Brown- 
ing there  is  a  failure  to  recognize  that  melody  is 
an  element  as  essential  as  thought. 


THE  TEXTURE  OF  POETRY  237 

As  verse  may  be  found  which  has  little  but 
melody,  so  is  it  possible  to  find  verse  in  which  there 
is  practically  nothing  save  melody  and  suggestion. 
In  "  Ulalume  "  Poe  has  given  an  instance  of  the 
effect  possible  from  the  combining  of  these  with 
but  the  thinnest  thread  of  idea :  — 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober ; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere,  — 

The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere ; 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October, 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid-region  of  Weir  — 
It  was  down  by  the  dark  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

There  is  here  no  definite  train  of  thought.  It  is 
an  attempt  to  convey  a  certain  mood  by  combining 
mysterious  and  weird  suggestion  with  melody  en- 
ticing and  sweet. 

A  finer  example  is  the  closing  passage  in  "  Kubla 
Khan."  The  suggestions  are  more  vivid,  and  the 
imagination  far  more  powerful. 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw ; 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  deep  delight  't  would  win  me, 

That  with  music  loud  and  long, 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 

That  sunny  dome  ;  those  caves  of  ice ; 

And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 

And  all  should  cry :  "  Beware  !   Beware  I 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair ; 


238  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise." 

Here  there  is  a  more  evident  succession  of  ideas 
than  in  "  Ulalume ; "  but  in  both  the  effect  is 
almost  entirely  produced  by  the  music  and  the 
suggestion,  with  very  little  aid  from  ideas. 

How  essential  to  poetry  are  melody  and  sugges- 
tion is  at  once  evident  when  one  examines  verse 
which  contains  ideas  without  these  fundamental 
qualities.  Wordsworth,  great  as  he  is  at  his  best, 
affords  ready  examples  here.  The  following  is  by 
no  means  the  least  poetical  passage  in  "  The  Pre- 
lude," but  it  is  sufficiently  far  from  being  poetry 
in  any  high  sense  to  serve  as  an  illustration :  — 

I  was  a  better  judge  of  thoughts  than  words, 

Misled  in  estimating  words,  not  only 

By  common  inexperience  of  youth, 

But  by  the  trade  of  classic  niceties. 

The  dangerous  craft  of  culling  term  and  phrase 

From  languages  that  want  the  living  voice 

To  carry  meaning  to  the  natural  heart. 

Here  are  ideas,  but  there  is  no  emotion,  and  the 
thing  could  be  said  better  in  prose.  It  is  as  fatal 
to  try  to  express  in  poetry  what  is  not  elevated 
enough  for  poetic  treatment  as  it  is  to  endeavor 
to  say  in  prose  those  high  things  which  can  be 
embodied  by  poetry  only.  Melody  alone,  or  sug- 
gestiveness  alone,  is  better  than  ideas  alone  if 
there  is  to  be  an  attempt  to  produce  the  effect  of 
poetry. 

Poetry   which  is  complete   and   adequate  adds 


THE  TEXTURE  OF  POETRY  239 

melody  and  suggestion  to  that  framework  of  ideas 
which  is  to  them  as  the  skeleton  to  flesh  and  blood. 
Any  of  the  great  lyrics  of  the  language  might  be 
given  as  examples.  The  reader  has  but  to  open 
his  Shakespeare's  "  Sonnets  "  at  random,  as  for  in- 
stance, at  this :  — 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring-, 

When  proud-pied  April,  dressed  in  all  his  trim, 

Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing, 

That  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him. 

Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 

Of  different  flowers  in  odor  and  in  hue, 

Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell. 

Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  g^w : 

Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white, 

Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose ; 

They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 

Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 

Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away, 

As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  carry  this  analysis  farther. 
The  object  of  undertaking  it  is  to  impress  upon 
the  reader  the  fact  that  in  poetry  form  is  an  essen- 
tial element  in  the  language  of  the  art.  The  stu- 
dent must  realize  that  the  poet  means  his  rhythm 
as  truly  as  and  in  the  same  measure  that  he  means 
the  thought ;  and  that  to  attempt  to  appreciate 
poetry  without  sensitiveness  to  melody  is  as  hope- 
less as  would  be  a  similar  attempt  to  try  to  appre- 
ciate music.  When  Wordsworth  said  that  poetry 
is  inevitable,  he  meant  the  metre  no  less  than  the 
thought ;  he  wished  to  convey  the  fact  that  the 
impassioned  mood  breaks  into  melody  of  word  as 
the  full  heart  breaks  into  song.     The  true  poem  is 


240  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

the  embodiment  of  what  can  be  expressed  in  no 
other  way  than  by  that  especial  combination  of 
idea,  suggestion,  and  sound.  The  thought,  the 
hint,  and  the  music  are  united  in  one  unique  and 
individual  whole. 


4 

i 


xvin 

POETRY   AND  LIFE 

Vitally  to  appreciate  what  poetry  is,  it  is  ne- 
cessary to  realize  what  are  its  relations  to  life. 
Looked  at  in  itself  its  essentials  are  emotion  which 
is  capable  of  taking  entire  possession  of  the  con- 
sciousness, and  the  embodiment  of  this  emotion  by 
the  combined  effects  of  imaginative  language  and 
melodious  form.  It  is  still  needful,  however,  to 
consider  how  this  art  acts  upon  human  beings,  and 
why  there  has  been  claimed  for  it  so  proud  a  pre- 
eminence among  the  arts. 

Why,  for  instance,  should  Emerson  speak  of 
the  embodiment  of  mere  emotion  as  "  the  only  ver- 
ity," Wordsworth  as  "the  breath  and  finer  spirit 
of  all  knowledge,"  and  why  does  Mrs.  Browning 
call  poets  "  the  only  truth-tellers  "  ?  The  answer 
briefly  is:  Because  consciousness  is  identical  with 
emotion,  and  consciousness  is  life.  For  all  practi- 
cal purposes  man  exists  but  in  that  he  feels.  The 
universe  concerns  him  in  so  far  as  it  touches  his 
feelings,  and  it  concerns  him  no  farther.  That  is 
for  man  most  essential  which  comes  most  near  to 
the  conditions  of  his  existence.  Pure  and  ideal 
emotion  is  essential  truth  in  the  sense  that  it  ap- 
proaches most  nearly  to  the  consciousness,  —  that 
is,  to  the  actual  being  of  the  race. 


242  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

I  am  aware  that  this  sounds  dangerously  like  an 
attempt  to  be  darkly  metaphysical ;  but  it  is  im- 
possible to  talk  on  high  themes  without  to  some 
extent  using  high  terms.  It  is  useless  to  hope  to 
put  into  words  all  the  mysteries  of  the  relations  of 
art  to  life,  yet  it  is  not  impossible  to  approximate 
somewhat  to  what  must  be  the  truth  of  the  matter, 
although  in  doing  it  one  inevitably  runs  the  risk  of 
seeming  to  attempt  to  say  what  cannot  be  said. 
What  I  have  been  endeavoring  to  convey  will  per- 
haps be  plainer  if  I  say  that  for  purposes  of  our 
discussion  man  is  practically  alive  only  in  so  far 
as  he  realizes  life.  This  realization  of  life,  this 
supreme  triumph  of  inner  consciousness,  comes  to 
him  through  his  feelings,  —  indeed,  is  perhaps  to 
be  considered  as  identical  with  his  feelings.  His 
sensations  affect  him  only  by  the  emotions  which 
they  excite.  His  emotion,  in  a  word,  is  the  measure 
of  his  existence.  Now  the  emotion  of  man  always 
responds,  in  a  degree  marked  by  appreciation,  to 
certain  presentations  of  the  relation  of  things,  to 
certain  considerations  of  the  nature  of  human  life, 
and  above  all  to  certain  demonstrations  of  the  pos- 
sibilities of  human  existence.  If  these  are  made 
actual  and  clear  to  the  mind,  they  cannot  fail  to 
arouse  that  engrossing  realization  which  is  the 
height  of  consciousness.  To  enable  a  man  to 
seize  with  his  imagination  the  ideal  of  love  or 
hate,  of  fear  or  courage,  of  shame  or  honor,  is  to 
make  him  kindle  and  thrill.  It  is  to  make  him 
for  the  time  being  thoroughly  and  richly  alive,  and 
it  is  to  increase  greatly  his  power  of  essential  life. 


i 


POETRY  AND  LIFE  £43 

These  are  the  things  which  most  deeply  touch  hu- 
man creatures ;  they  are  the  universal  in  that  they 
appeal  to  all  sane  hearts  and  minds ;  they  are  the 
eternal  as  measured  by  mortal  existence  because 
they  have  power  to  touch  the  men  of  all  time; 
hence  they  are  the  real  truths ;  they  are,  for  beings 
under  the  conditions  of  earthly  existence,  the  only 
verities. 

The  ordinary  life  of  man  is  not  unlike  the  feeble 
flame  of  a  miner's  lamp,  half  smothered  in  some 
underground  gallery  until  a  draught  of  vital  air 
kindles  it  into  sudden  glow  and  sparkle.  Most 
human  beings  have  but  a  dull  flicker  of  half-alive 
consciousness  until  some  outward  breath  causes  it 
to  flash  into  quick  and  quivering  splendor.  Poetry 
is  that  divine  air,  that  breeze  from  unsealed  heights 
of  being,  the  kindling  breath  by  which  the  spark 
becomes  a  flame. 

It  is  but  as  a  means  of  conveying  the  essential 
truth  which  is  the  message  of  poetry,  that  the  poet 
employs  obvious  truth.  The  facts  which  impress 
themselves  upon  the  outer  senses  are  to  him  merely 
a  language  by  means  of  which  he  seeks  to  impart 
the  higher  facts  that  are  apprehended  only  by  the 
inner  self ;  those  facts  of  emotion  which  it  is  his  of- 
fice as  a  seer  to  divine  and  to  interpret.  The  swine- 
herd and  the  wandering  minstrel  saw  the  same 
wood  and  sky  and  lake  ;  but  to  one  they  were  earth 
and  air  and  water ;  while  to  the  other  they  were 
the  outward  and  visible  embodiment  of  the  spirit 
of  beauty  which  is  eternal  though  earth  and  sea 
and  sky  vanish.     To  Peter  Bell  the  primrose  by 


244  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

the  river's  brim  was  but  a  primrose  and  nothing 
more ;  to  the  poet  it  was  the  sj^mbol  and  the  em- 
bodiment of  loveliness,  the  sign  of  an  eternal  truth. 
To  the  laborer  going  afield  in  the  early  light  the 
dewdrops  are  but  so  much  water,  wetting  unpleas- 
antly his  shoes ;  to  Browning  it  was  a  symbol  of 
the  embodiment  in  woman  of  all  that  is  pure  and 
holy  when  he  sang :  — 

There  's  a  woman  like  a  dew-drop,  she  's  so  purer  than  the  purest. 

It  is  evident  from  what  has  been  said  that  in 
reading  poetry  it  is  necessary  to  penetrate  through 
the  letter  to  the  spirit.  I  have  already  spoken  at 
length  in  a  former  lecture  upon  the  need  of  know- 
ing the  language  of  literature,  and  of  being  in 
sympathy  with  the  mood  of  the  writer.  This  is 
especially  true  in  regard  to  poetry,  since  poetry 
becomes  great  in  proportion  as  it  deals  with  the 
spirit  rather  than  with  the  letter.  "We  are  all 
poets  when  we  read  a  poem  well,"  Carlyle  has 
said.  It  is  only  by  entering  into  the  mood  and 
by  sharing  the  exaltation  of  the  poet  that  we  are 
able  to  appreciate  his  message.  A  poem  is  like  a 
window  of  stained  glass.  From  without  one  may 
be  able  to  gain  some  general  idea  of  its  design  and 
to  guess  crudely  at  its  hues  ;  but  really  to  perceive 
its  beauty,  its  richness  of  design,  its  sumptuousness 
of  color,  one  must  stand  within  the  very  sanctuary 
itself. 

It  is  partly  from  the  lack  of  sensitiveness  of  the 
imagination  of  the  reading  public,  I  believe,  that 
in  the  latter  half  of  this  century  the  novel  has 


POETRY  AND  LIFE  245 

grown  into  a  prominence  so  marked.  The  great 
mass  of  readers  no  longer  respond  readily  to  po- 
etry, and  fiction  is  in  a  sense  a  simplification  of 
the  language  of  imagination  so  that  it  may  be  com- 
prehended by  those  who  cannot  rise  to  the  heights 
of  verse.  In  this  sense  novels  might  almost  be 
called  the  kindergarten  of  the  imagination.  In 
fiction,  emotional  experiences  are  translated  into 
the  language  of  ordinary  intellectual  life ;  whereas 
in  poetry  they  are  phrased  in  terms  of  the  imagi- 
nation, pure  and  simple.  There  can  be  no  ques- 
tion of  the  superiority  of  the  means  employed  by 
the  poet.  Much  which  is  embodied  in  verse  cannot 
be  expressed  by  prose  of  any  sort,  no  matter  how 
exalted  that  prose  may  be ;  but  for  the  ordinary 
intelligence  the  language  of  prose  is  far  more  easily 
comprehensible. 

What  I  have  been  saying,  however,  may  seem 
to  be  so  general  and  theoretical  that  I  may  be  held 
not  yet  fairly  to  have  faced  that  issue  at  which  I 
hinted  in  the  beginning,  the  issue  which  Philistine 
minds  raise  bluntly :  What  is  the  use  of  poetry  ? 
Philistines  are  willing  to  concede  that  there  is  a 
sensuous  pleasure  to  be  gained  from  verse.  They 
are  able  to  perceive  how  those  who  care  for  such 
things  may  find  an  enervating  enjoyment  in  the 
linked  sweetness  of  cadence  melting  into  cadence, 
in  musical  line  and  honeyed  phrase.  What  they 
are  utterly  unable  to  understand  is  how  thoughtful 
men,  men  alive  to  the  practical  needs  and  the  real 
interests  of  the  race,  can  speak  of  poetry  as  if  it 


246  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

were  a  thing  of  genuine  importance  in  the  history 
and  development  of  mankind.  It  would  not  be 
worth  while  to  attempt  an  answer  to  this  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Philistines.  They  are  a  folk  who 
are  so  completely  ignorant  of  the  higher  good  of 
life  that  it  is  impossible  to  make  them  understand. 
Their  conception  of  value  does  not  reach  beyond 
pecuniary  and  physical  standards ;  they  compre- 
hend nothing  which  is  not  expressed  in  material 
terms.  One  who  attempted  to  describe  a  sym- 
phony to  a  deaf  man  would  not  be  more  at  a  loss 
for  terms  than  must  be  he  who  attempts  to  set 
forth  the  worth  of  art  to  those  ignorant  of  real 
values.  The  question  may  be  answered,  but  to 
those  who  most  need  to  be  instructed  in  regard  to 
aesthetic  values  any  answer  must  forever  remain 
unintelligible. 

There  are,  however,  many  sincere  and  earnest 
seekers  after  truth  who  are  unable  to  clear  up  their 
ideas  when  they  come  in  contact,  as  they  must  every 
day,  with  the  assumption  that  poetry  is  but  the 
plaything  of  idle  men  and  women,  a  thing  not  only 
unessential  but  even  frivolous.  For  them  it  is 
worth  while  to  formulate  some  sort  of  a  statement ; 
although  to  do  this  is  like  making  the  attempt  to 
declare  why  the  fragrance  of  the  rose  is  sweet  or 
why  the  hue  of  its  petals  gives  delight. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  the  use  of  poetry  is  to 
nourish  the  imagination.  I  have  spoken  earlier  of 
the  impossibility  of  fulfilling  the  higher  functions 
of  life  without  this  faculty.  A  common  error  re- 
gards imagination  as  a  quality  which  has  to  do 


POETRY  AND  LIFE  247 

with  rare  and  exceptional  experiences ;  as  a  power 
of  inventing  whimsical  and  impossible  thoughts ; 
as  a  sort  of  jester  to  beguile  idle  moments  of  the 
mind.  In  reality  imagination  is  to  the  mental  be- 
ing what  blood  is  to  the  physical  man.  Upon  it 
the  intellect  and  the  emotional  consciousness  alike 
depend  for  nourishment.  Without  it  the  mind 
is  powerless  to  seize  or  to  make  really  its  own 
anything  which  lies  outside  of  actual  experience. 
Without  it  the  broker  could  not  so  fully  realize  his 
cunning  schemes  as  to  manipulate  the  market  and 
control  the  price  of  stocks  ;  without  it  the  inventor 
could  devise  no  new  machine,  the  scientist  grasp  no 
fresh  secret  of  laws  which  govern  the  universe.  It 
is  the  divine  power  in  virtue  of  which  man  subdues 
the  world  to  his  uses.  In  a  word,  imagination  is 
that  faculty  which  distinguishes  man  from  brute. 

It  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom  to  know  ;  it  is 
the  culmination  of  wisdom  to  feel.  The  intellect 
accumulates ;  the  emotion  assimilates.  What  we 
learn,  we  possess ;  but  what  we  feel,  we  are.  The 
perception  acquires,  and  the  imagination  realizes ; 
and  thus  it  is  that  only  through  the  imagination 
can  man  build  up  and  nourish  that  inner  being 
which  is  the  true  and  vital  self.  To  cultivate  the 
imagination,  therefore,  is  an  essential  —  nay,  more  ; 
it  is  the  one  essential  means  of  insuring  the  pro- 
gression of  the  race.  This  is  the  great  office  of 
all  art,  but  perhaps  most  obviously  is  it  the  noble 
prerogative  and  province  of  poetry.  "  In  the  im- 
agination," wrote  Coleridge,  "  is  the  distinguishing 
characteristic  of  man  as  a  progressive  being."     To 


248  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

kindle  into  flame  the  dull  embers  of  this  god-like 
attribute  is  the  first  office  of  poetry;  and  were 
this  all,  it  would  lift  the  art  forever  above  every 
cumbering  material  care  and  engrossing  intellectual 
interest. 

In  the  second  place,  the  use  of  poetry  is  to  give 
man  knowledge  of  his  unrecognized  experiences 
or  his  unrealized  capacities  of  feeling.  The  poet 
speaks  what  many  have  felt,  but  what  none  save  he 
can  say.  He  accomplishes  the  hitherto  impossible. 
He  makes  tangible  and  subject  thie  vague  emotions 
which  disquiet  us  as  if  they  were  elusive  ghosts 
haunting  the  dwelling  of  the  soul,  unsubdued  and 
oppressive  in  their  mystery.  The  joy  of  a  moment 
he  has  fixed  for  all  time ;  the  throb  gone  almost 
before  it  is  felt  he  has  made  captive ;  to  the  eva- 
sive emotion  he  has  given  immortality.  In  a  word, 
it  is  his  office  to  confer  upon  men  dominion  over 
themselves. 

Third,  it  is  poetry  which  nourishes  and  preserves 
the  optimism  of  the  race.  Poetry  is  essentially 
optimistic.  It  raises  and  encourages  by  fixing  the 
mind  upon  the  possibilities  of  life.  Even  when  it 
bewails  what  is  gone,  when  it  weeps  lost  perfection, 
vanished  joy,  and  crushed  love,  the  reader  receives 
from  the  poetic  form,  from  the  uplift  of  metrical 
inspiration,  a  sense  that  the  possibilities  of  exist- 
ence overwhelm  individual  pain.  The  fact  that 
such  blessings  could  and  may  exist  is  not  only  con- 
solation when  fate  has  wrenched  them  away,  but 
the  vividness  with  which  they  are  recalled  may 
almost  make  them  seem  to  be  relived.     That 


POETRY  AND  LIFE  249 

A  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  renaemberiiig  happier  things, 

IP  not  the  whole  story.  In  times  of  deepest  woe  it 
is  this  very  remembrance  which  makes  it  possible  to 
live  on  at  all.  The  unconscious  and  the  inevita- 
ble lesson  of  all  true  art,  moreover,  is  that  the  pos- 
sibility of  beauty  in  life  is  compensation  for  the 
anguish  which  its  existence  entails.  The  poet  who 
weeps  for  the  lost  may  have  no  word  of  comfort 
to  offer,  but  the  fact  that  life  itself  is  of  supreme 
possibilities  is  shown  inevitably  and  persuasively 
by  the  fact  that  he  is  so  deeply  moved.  He  could 
not  be  thus  stricken  had  he  not  known  very  ecsta- 
sies of  joy ;  and  his  message  to  the  race  is  that 
such  bliss  has  been  and  thus  may  be  again.  More 
than  this,  the  fact  that  he  in  his  anguish  instinc- 
tively turns  to  art  is  the  most  eloquent  proof  that 
however  great  may  be  the  sorrows  of  life  there  is 
for  them  an  alleviating  balm  in  aesthetic  enjoyment. 
He  may  speak  of 

Beauty  that  must  die, 
And  Joy  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips, 
Bidding  adieu ; 

but  with  the  very  thought  of  the  brevity  is  coupled 
an  exquisite  sense  of  both  beauty  and  joy  in  ever 
fresh  renewal,  so  that  the  reader  knows  a  subtle 
thrill  of  pleasure  even  at  the  mention  of  pain. 
Poe's  proposition  that  poetry  should  be  restricted 
to  sorrowful  themes  probably  arose  from  a  more  or 
less  conscious  feeling  that  the  expression  of  de- 
spair is  the  surest  means  of  conveying  vividly  a 
sense  of  the  value  of  what  is  gone  ;  and  whether 
Poe  went  so  far  as  to  realize  it  or  not  the  fact  is 


250  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

that  the  passion  of  loss  most  surely  expresses  the 
possible  bliss  of  possession.  Even  when  it  would, 
art  cannot  deny  the  worth  and  the  glory  of  exist- 
ence. The  word  of  denial  is  chanted  to  a  strain 
which  inspires  and  affirms.  Even  when  he  would 
be  most  pessimistic  the  genuine  poet  must  perforce 
preach  in  deathless  tones  the  gospel  of  optimism. 

Fourth,  poetry  is  the  original  utterance  of  the 
ideas  of  the  world.  It  is  easy  and  not  uncommon 
to  regard  the  art  of  the  poet  as  having  little  to  do 
with  the  practical  conduct  of  life ;  yet  there  is  no 
man  in  civilization  who  does  not  hold  opinions  and 
theories,  thoughts  and  beliefs,  which  he  owes  to 
the  poets.  Thought  is  not  devised  in  the  market- 
place. What  thinkers  have  divined  in  secret  is 
there  shown  openly  by  its  results.  Every  poet  of 
genius  remakes  the  world.  He  leaves  the  stamp 
of  his  imagination  upon  the  whole  race,  and  philo- 
sophers reason,  scientists  explore,  money-changers 
scheme,  tradesmen  haggle,  and  farmers  plough  or 
sow,  all  under  conditions  modified  by  what  lias 
been  divulged  in  song.  The  poet  is  the  great 
thinker,  whose  thought,  translated,  scattered,  di- 
luted, spilled  upon  the  ground  and  gathered  up 
again,  is  the  inspiration  and  the  guide  of  mankind. 

If  this  seem  extravagant,  think  for  a  little. 
Reflect  in  what  civilization  differs  from  savagery ; 
consider  not  the  accidental  and  outward  circum- 
stance, but  the  fundamental  causes  upon  which 
these  depend.  If  you  endeavor  to  find  adequately 
expressed  the  ideals  of  honor,  of  truth,  of  love, 
and  of  aspiration  which  are  behind  all  the  develop^ 


POETRY  AND  LIFE  251 

ment  of  mankind,  it  is  to  the  poets  that  you  turn 
instinctively.  It  is  possible  to  go  farther  than  this. 
Knowledge  is  but  a  perception  of  relations.  The 
conception  of  the  universe  is  too  vast  to  be  assimi- 
lated all  at  once,  but  every  perception  of  the  way 
in  which  one  part  is  related  to  another,  one  fact  to 
another,  one  thing  to  the  rest,  helps  toward  a  real- 
ization of  the  ultimate  truth.  It  is  the  poet  who 
first  discerns  and  proclaims  the  relations  of  those 
facts  which  the  experience  of  the  race  accumulates. 
From  the  particular  he  deduces  the  general,  from 
the  facts  he  perceives  the  principles  which  under- 
lie them.  The  general,  that  is,  in  its  relation  to 
that  emotional  consciousness  which  is  the  real  life 
of  man  ;  the  principles  which  take  hold  not  upon 
material  things  only,  but  upon  the  very  conditions 
of  human  existence.  All  abstract  truth  has  sprung 
from  poetry  as  rain  comes  from  the  sea.  Changed, 
diffused,  carried  afar  and  often  altered  almost  be- 
yond recognition,  the  thought  of  the  world  is  but 
the  manifestation  of  the  imagination  of  the  world  ; 
and  it  has  found  its  first  tangible  expression  in 
poetry. 

Fifth,  poetry  is  the  instructor  in  beauty.  No 
small  thing  is  human  happiness,  and  human  hap- 
piness is  nourished  on  beauty.  Poetry  opens  the 
eyes  of  men  to  loveliness  in  earth  and  sky  and  sea, 
in  flower  and  weed,  in  tree  and  rock  and  stream,  in 
things  common  and  things  afar  alike.  It  is  by  the 
interpretation  of  the  poet  that  mankind  in  general 
is  aware  of  natural  beauty ;  and  it  is  hardly  less 
true  that  the  beauty  of  moral  and  emotional  worlds 


252  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

would  be  practically  unknown  were  it  not  for  these 
high  interpreters.  The  race  has  first  become 
aware  of  all  ethereal  and  elusive  loveliness  through 
the  song  of  the  poet,  sensitive  to  see  and  skillful 
to  tell.  For  its  beauty  in  and  of  itself,  and  for  its 
revelation  of  the  beauty  of  the  universe,  both  ma- 
terial and  intangible,  poetry  is  to  the  world  a  boon 
priceless  and  peerless. 

Sixth,  poetry  is  the  creator  and  preserver  of 
ideals.  The  ideal  is  the  conception  of  the  exist- 
ence beyond  what  is  of  that  which  may  and  should 
be.  It  is  the  measure  of  the  capability  of  desire. 
"  Man's  desires  are  limited  by  his  perceptions," 
says  William  Blake ;  "  none  can  desire  what  he 
has  not  perceived."  What  man  can  receive,  what 
it  is  possible  for  him  to  enjoy,  is  limited  to  what 
he  is  able  to  wish  for.  The  ideal  is  the  highest 
point  to  which  his  wish  has  been  able  to  attain, 
and  upon  the  advancement  of  this  point  must  de- 
pend the  increasing  of  the  possibilities  of  individ- 
ual experience.  With  the  growth  of  ideals,  more- 
over, comes  the  constant,  however  slow,  realization 
of  them.  So  true  is  this  that  it  almost  affords  a 
justification  of  the  belief  that  whatever  mankind 
really  desires  must  in  the  end  be  realized  from  the 
very  fact  that  it  is  desired.  Be  that  as  it  may,  an 
ideal  is  the  perception  of  a  higher  reality.  It  is 
the  recognition  of  essential  as  distinguished  from 
accidental  truth ;  the  comprehension  of  the  eternal 
principle  which  must  underlie  every  fact.  It  is  a 
realization  of  the  meaning  of  existence  ;  a  piercing 
through  the  transient  appearance   to   the   funda- 


POETRY  AND  LIFE  253 

mental  and  the  enduring.  The  reader  who  finds 
himself  caught  away  like  St.  Paul  to  the  third 
heaven  —  "  whether  in  the  body  I  cannot  tell ;  or 
whether  out  of  the  body  I  cannot  tell  "  — has  no 
need  to  ask  whether  life  is  merely  eating  and 
drinking,  getting  and  spending,  marrying  and  giv- 
ing in  marriage.  He  has  for  that  transcendent 
moment  lived  the  real  life  ;  he  has  tasted  the  possi- 
bilities of  existence ;  he  has  for  one  glorious  in- 
stant realized  the  ideal.  When  a  poem  has  carried 
him  out  of  himself  and  the  material  present  which 
we  call  the  real,  then  the  verse  has  been  for  him 
as  a  chariot  of  fire  in  which  he  has  been  swirled 
upward  to  the  very  heart  of  the  divine. 

When  not  actually  under  the  influence  of  this 
high  exalting  power  of  poetry  most  men  have  a 
strange  reluctance  to  admit  that  it  is  possible  for 
them  to  be  so  moved ;  and  thus  it  may  easily  hap- 
pen that  what  has  just  been  said  may  seem  to  the 
reader  extravagant  and  florid.  There  are  happily 
few,  however,  to  whom  there  have  not  come  mo- 
ments of  inner  illumination,  few  who  cannot  if 
they  will  call  up  times  when  the  imagination  hac 
carried  them  away,  and  the  delight  of  being  so 
borne  above  the  actual  was  a  revelation  and  a  joy 
not  easily  to  be  put  into  word.  Eecalling  such  an 
experience,  you  will  not  find  it  difficult  to  under- 
stand what  is  meant  by  the  claim  that  poetry  cre- 
ates in  the  mind  of  man  an  ideal  which  in  turn  it 
justifies  also. 

Lastly  and  above  all,  the  use  of  poetry  is— - 
poetry. 


254  THE  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

'T  is  the  deep  music  of  the  rolling  world 
Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved  air 
j^olian  modulations. 

It  is  vain  to  endeavor  to  put  into  word  the  worth 
and  office  of  poetry.  At  the  last  we  are  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  fact  that  anything  short  of 
itself  is  inadequate  to  do  it  justice.  To  read  a 
single  page  of  a  great  singer  is  more  potent  than 
to  pore  over  volumes  in  his  praise.  A  single  lyric 
puts  to  shame  the  most  elaborate  analysis  or  the 
most  glowing  eulogy;  in  the  end  there  is  no  re- 
source but  to  appeal  to  the  inner  self  which  is  the 
true  man ;  since  in  virtue  of  what  is  most  deep 
and  noble  in  the  soul,  each  may  perceive  for  him- 
self that  poetry  is  its  own  supreme  justification  ; 
that  there  is  no  need  to  discuss  the  relation  of 
poetry  to  life,  since  poetry  is  the  expression  of  life 
in  its  best  and  highest  possibilities. 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abbot,  J.  S.  C,  "  Rollo,"  201. 

Addison,  66. 

Advertising^-,  1G8-170. 

^schylus,  149. 

Aldrich,  T.  B.,  "Story  of  a  Bad  Boy," 
11,15. 

Allusions,  Biblical,  98-101  ;  to  folk- 
lore, 106  ;  historical,  103-106 ;  liter- 
ary, 107-108;  mythological,  101- 
103. 

Amiel,  "Journal  Intime,"  7. 

Amiot,  90. 

Andersen,  Hans  Christian,  196. 

Apprehension,  74. 

Ariosto,  143. 

Art,  conventions  in,  89  ;  deals  with 
the  typical,  6 ;  end  of,  87 ;  good, 
22 ;  origin  of,  3-5  ;  sanity  of,  174 ; 
truth  in,  206  ;  truth  of,  209 ;  vs. 
science,  32. 

Artist,  office  of,  207. 

Asbjornsen,  196. 

Augustine,  St.,  "  Confessions,"  7. 

Austen,  Jane,  189. 

Ballads,  222. 

Balzac,  189. 

Barrie,  J.  M.,  211. 

Bible,  101,  140,  142,  145,  197;  allu- 
sions to,  98-101 ;  as  a  classic,  143- 
147  ;  books  of,  characterized,  146  ; 
quoted,  100,  228  ;  Revised  Version 
vs.  King  James,  146. 

Black,  William,  13,  211. 

Blackmore,  R.  D.,  211. 

Blake,  William,  54,  66;  quoted,  58, 
121,  252. 

Boccaccio,  143. 

Breeding,  good,  204. 

Bronte,  Charlotte,  189. 

Broughton,  Rhoda,  185. 

Browning,  Mrs.  E.  B.,  quoted,  8,  132, 
225,  241  ;  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portu- 
guese," 7-9. 

Browning,  Robert,  92,  155,  179,  180; 
"  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower 
Came,"  48;  lack  of  melody,  236; 
obscure  in  allusions,  106  ;  "  Pro- 
spice,"  13  ;  quoted,  244  ;  "  The  Ring 
and  the  Book,"  180. 

Bunyan,  John,  "Pilgrim's  Progress," 
129. 


Burke,  Edmund,  quoted,  229. 

Burns,  quoted,  234. 

Byron,  Lord,  11,  12  ;  quoted,  104. 

Cable,  G.  W.,  211. 

Carleton,  Will,  »  Farm  Ballads,"  223. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  42  ;  quoted,  244. 

Carroll,  Lewis,  quoted,  236. 

Cervantes,  133,  140,  143;  "Don  Qui- 
xote," 129,  189. 

Character,  56. 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  78.  116,  123,  124, 
140,  142,  146  ;  as  a  classic,  151-152 ; 
Lowell  on,  114  ;  quoted,  114. 

Children,  education  of,  193-196,  223; 
reading  of,  195-198. 

Civilization,  204. 

Classic,  defined,  127. 

Classics,  176,  177  ;  cause  of  the  neg- 
lect of,  132-134  ;  test  of,  130. 

"Clerk  Saunders,"  222. 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  54,  66  ;  "Hymn  Be- 
fore Sunrise,"  etc.,  75 ;  quoted,  145, 
237,  247. 

Collins,  William,  66. 

Comprehension,  74. 

Conventions,  88-92. 

Cowper,  William,  quoted,  79. 

Crawford,  F.  M.,  211. 

Critics,  use  of,  70. 

Dante,  58,  78,  140,  142,  146  ;  as  a  clas- 

sic,  150-151. 
Darwin,  Charles,  55. 
D'Auluoy,  Countess,  196. 
D'Aurevilly,  Barbey,  169. 
Defoe,  66  ;  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  197. 
De   Gasparin,   Madame,   "  The    Near 

and  the  Heavenly  Horizons,"  48. 
De  Maupassant,  Guy,  182. 
Dekker,  Thomas,  quoted,  115. 
Dickens,  Charles,  179,  180,  189 ;   his 

metrical  prose,  233. 
Doyle,  A.  Conan,  211 ;  quoted,  134. 
Dryden,  John,  66,  146  ;  quoted,  152. 
"  Duchess,"  The,  1.3,  185. 
Dumas,  A.,ph'e,  182, 189  ;  "  D'Artag- 

nan  Romances,"  27,  92. 

Edgeworth,  Maria,  201. 
Education,  use  of  poetry  in,  223. 
Eliot,  George,  180,  187,  189. 


258 


INDEX 


Emerson,  R.  W.,  179,  180 ;  on  trans- 
lations, 148;  quoted,  43,  47,  103, 
225,  241. 

Emotion,  241-245 ;  fashion  in,  15 ; 
genuine,  68;  tests  of  genuineness 
of,  10-20. 

Etiquette,  204. 

Euripides,  149. 

Experience  the  test  of  art,  10. 

Fairy  stories,  196-197. 
Fiction,  truth  in,  188. 
Fielding,  Henry,  66. 
Folk-lore,  223. 

Folk-songs,  137-139,  221-222. 
French  authors,  170. 
Fuller,  Margaret,  86. 

Genius,  20,  250. 
Gibbon,  Edward,  quoted,  74. 
Gladstone,  W.  E.,  168. 
Goethe,  quoted,  36,  178. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  66. 
Gower,  John,  116. 
Gray,  Thomas,  quoted,  103. 
Greek  literature,  149,  150. 
Greek  sculpture,  150. 
Greek  tragedians,  143,  148. 
Greeks,  sanity  of  the,  148. 
Grimm,  The  Brothers,  194,  196. 

Haggard,  Rider,  "  She,"  26. 

Hannay,  James,  quoted,  57. 

Hardy,  Thomas,  "  Far  from  the  Mad- 
ding Crowd,"  181  ;  "The  Return  of 
the  Native,"  181,  208  ;  "  Tess  of  the 
D'Urbervilles,"  181  ;  "  Under  the 
Greenwood  Tree,"  181. 

Harris,  J.  C,  "  Uncle  Remus,"  197. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  179,  180,  189  ; 
Arthur  Dimmesdale,  201  ;  "  The 
Marble  Faun,"  92;  quoted,  83; 
"The  Scarlet  Letter,"  2,  13,  201, 
208,  214  ;  "  Tanglewood  Tales,"  197  ; 
"The  Wonder-Book,"  197. 

Hazlitt,  William,  quoted,  113. 

"  Helen  of  KirconneU,"  13,  138. 

Homer,  58,  78,  123,  131,  140,  142,  146, 
151  ;  as  a  classic,  147-150. 

Hope,  Anthony,  211. 

Hugo,  Victor,  189  ;  "  Les  Mis^rables," 
92,  208. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  quoted,  84. 

Hunt,  W.  M.,  quoted,  62. 

Ibsen,  172,  173,  177;  "The  Doll's 
House,"  18  ;  "  Ghosts,"  173. 

Imagination,  93,  246-248,  253;  and 
thought,  251 ;  creative.  111 ;  the 
realizing  faculty,  19 ;  reality  of,  54. 

Imaginative  language,  defined,  230- 
231. 

Imaginative  quality,  test  of,  93. 

Impressionism,  69. 

Interest,  temporary  and  permanent, 
127-129. 


Irreverence,  87. 
Isaiah,  146,  150. 

James,  Henry,  quoted,  203. 

Jewett,  Sarah  0.,  Miss,  211, 

Job,  146,  230. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  quoted,  84. 

Jonson,  Ben,  quoted,  83. 

Judd,  Sylvester,  "Margaret,"  30. 

Keats,  John,  54,  92,  112;  letters  to 
Miss  Brawne,  62 ;  "  Ode  to  a  Gre- 
cian Urn,"  17  ;  quoted,  94,  102,  249. 

Kingsley,  Charles,  189. 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  182 ;  "  Jungle 
Books,"  197,  213. 

Laboulaye,  ifidouard,  196. 

Lamb,  Charles,  133  ;  quoted,  196. 

Language,  imaginative,  defined,  230- 
231. 

Lear,  Edward,  235. 

Lessing,  "  Nathan  the  Wise,"  48. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  "Gettysburg  Ad- 
dress," 112. 

Literature,  books  about,  65-68 ;  con- 
vincing, 14  ;  defined,  1-32 ;  didac- 
tic, 201 ;  early,  136 ;  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, 65,  66  ;  gossip  about,  62-65 ; 
history  of,  65;  juvenile,  193-195; 
morbid,  20,  177,  178  ;  oflBce  of,  46- 
59  ;  relative  rank,  31 ;  study  of,  de- 
fined, 33-44,  60-68  ;  study  of,  diffi- 
cult, 72  ;  talk  about,  40-43  ;  a  unit, 
154  ;  vs.  science,  55. 

"  Littell's  Living  Age,"  39. 

Longfellow,  H.  W.,  181. 

Lowell,  J.  R.,  67  ;  quoted,  78,  102, 
114,  173,  216. 

Macaulay,  T.  B.,  220  ;  quoted,  207. 

Maclaren,  Ian,  211,  213. 

Maeterlinck,  172. 

Magazines,  163-166. 

Malory,  Thomas,  "  Morte  d' Arthur," 
196. 

Marcus  Aurelius,  "Reflections,"  7. 

Marlowe,  Christopher,  "  The  Jew  of 
Malta,"  76. 

Melody,  235-240. 

Meredith.  George,  "  The  Ordeal  of 
Richard  Feverel,"  92,  181,  208. 

Metre,  227-230. 

Milton,  John,  108,  140,  143  ;  "L'  Alle- 
gro," 100;  "II  Penseroso,"  107; 
"Lycidas,"  77;  "On  the  Morning 
of  Christ's  Nativity,"  100 ;  quoted, 
63,  113,  163. 

Modernity,  169. 

Moliere,  140,  143. 

Montaigne,  133,  140,  143. 

Morbidity,  140. 

Morley,  John,  67. 

"Mother  Goose."  96,  221. 

Mulock,  D.  M.,  189. 

Music,  barbaric,  90 ;  Chinese,  90. 


INDEX 


259 


Musset,  A.  de,  "Mile,  de  Maupin,"  I 
177. 

Newspapers,  162,  1G3. 

Nordau,  Max,  "  Degeneration, "  170; 

quoted,  171. 
Notes,  use  of,  84,  109. 
Notoriety,  128,  172. 
Novels,  realistic,  209  ;  vs.  poetry,  245  ; 

with  a  theory,  1G7. 
Novelty,  134. 

"  Old  Oaken  Bucket,"  The,  17. 
Originality,  170. 
Ouida,  17,  41. 

Page,  T.  N.,  211. 

Pater,  Walter,  "Marius  the  Epicu- 
rean," 25. 

Periodicals,  162-1G6. 

Petrarch,  143. 

Philology  not  the  study  of  literature, 
79. 

Plato,  quoted,  234. 

Plutarch,  letter  to  his  wife,  50. 

Poe,  E.  A.,  "  Lygeia,"  22;  quoted, 
104,  105,  237,  249 ;  Tales,  21. 

Poetry,  defined,  227  ;  form  is  essen- 
tial, 236,  239  ;  how  different  from 
prose,  231,  232;  office  in  education, 
223  ;  oflBce  of,  245-252 ;  optimism 
of,  248-250;  origin,  5;  reading  of, 
244  ;  Ts.  novels,  245. 

Pope,  Alexander,  66. 

Prose,  how  different  from  poetry,  231- 
232  ;  language  of,  231. 

Public  guided  by  the  few,  10. 

Quincy,  Josiah,  50. 

Rabelais,  133,  140. 

Reade,  Charles,  189. 

Reading,  first,  85 ;  for  amusement, 
210  ;  measure  of  character,  159  ;  se- 
rious matter,  87  ;  should  be  a  pleas- 
ure, 71-73  ;  test  of,  86 ;  works  as 
units,  81. 

Realism,  69,  209. 

Reverence,  87. 

Rhythm,  220,  221,  227-229. 

Richardson,  Samuel,  66. 

Rossetti,  D.  G.,  181 ;  "  Sister  Helen," 
119,  120. 

Rousseau,  "Confessions,"  7. 

Ruskin,  John,  quoted,  95. 

Russell,  W.  Clark,  13,  211. 

Sanity,  140,  174. 

Schopenhauer,  quoted,  63,  227. 

Science  vs.  art,  32. 

Science  vs.  literature,  case  of  Darwin, 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  189. 
Sculpture,  Aztec,  89 ;  Greek,  89. 
Sensationalism,  26. 
Sentiment,  16,  157  ;  defined,  15. 


Sentimentality,  16,  139,  157  ;  defined, 

15. 
Shakespeare,  William,  3,  35,  41,  53, 

58,  65,  77,  86,  92,  93,  107,  118,  124, 

133,  140,  143,  145,  147, 173,  214,  216  ; 

as  a  classic,  152-153 ;  condensation 

of,  93;  "Cymbeline,"  75;  epitliets 

of,    112,    231 ;    for    children,    197 ; 

"  Hamlet,"  81,  215  ;  "  King  Lear," 

81;    "The  Merchant  of    Venice," 

115-118;    "Othello,"    81;    quoted, 

102,    104,    113,    114,   115,   229,   231, 

239  ;  "  Sonnets,"  8,  239. 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  92,  131  ;  quoted,  254  ; 

"  Stanzas  Written    in    Dejection," 

etc.,  17. 
Shorthouse,  J.  H.,  "  John  Inglesant," 

29. 
Sienkiewicz,  182  ;  "  The  Deluge,"  92. 
Sincerity,  12-15. 
Smile,  sardonic,  95. 
Sophocles,  149. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  123,  124,  143,  197. 
Standards,  141 ;  of  criticism,  161. 
Steele,  Sir  Richard,  66. 
Stephen,  Leslie,  67. 
Stevenson,  R.  L.,  181  ;  "  Kidnapped," 

197  ;  quoted,  57  ;  "  Treasure  Island," 

27,  197. 
Stockton,   Frank,   "  The   Adventures 

of  Captain  Horn,"  27. 
Story,   happy  ending  of  a,  215 ;   the 

short,  211-214. 
Stowe,  Mrs.  H.  B.,  on  Byron,  62. 
Suckling,  Sir  John,  quoted,  100. 
Suggestion,  111-114,  118-120,  230,  235. 
Suttner,  Baroness  von,  161. 
Swift,     Jonathan,     66  ;     "  Gulliver's 

Travels,"  197. 
Swinburne,  A.  C,  181;  "Atalanta  in 

Calydon,"  228;   excess  of  melody, 

236. 
Symbolism,  69. 
Sympathy  between  reader  and  author, 

82. 

Talleyi-and,  quoted,  38. 

Tasso,  143. 

Taste  a  measure  of  character,  3. 

Technical  excellence,  25. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  92,  155,  179,  180, 
232;  "Idylls  of  the  King,"  ISO; 
"In  Memoriam,"  7,  50;  quoted, 
101,  249. 

Thackeray,  W.  M.,  42,  179,  180,  189  ; 
Beatrix  Esmond,  92  ;  Colonel  New- 
come,  13  ;  "  Henry  Esmond,"  208 ; 
Major  Pendennis,  201 ;  "  Penden- 
nis,"  200. 

Titian,  42-43. 

Tolstoi,  172,  177  ;  "  The  Kreutzer  So- 
nata," 20,  214;  "War  and  Peace," 
29. 

Traill,  H.  D.,  quoted,  190. 

Translations,  use  of,  147.  148. 

Trollope,  Anthony,  180,  189. 


260 


INDEX 


Tupper,  M.  F.,  3. 
Turgenietf,  182. 

"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  160. 

Vedas,  The,  145. 
Verlaine,  22. 

"Waly,  waly,"  138. 
Wendell,  Barrett,  quoted,  42. 


Weyman,  S.  J., 
Whittier,  J.  G. 


211. 
181. 


Wilkins,  Miss  M.  E.,  211,  213. 
Wordsworth,  William,  54,  66;   "The 

Daffodils,"   17 ;    quoted,   108,    225. 

238,  239,  241,  243  ;  "  To  Lucy,"  13. 

Zend-Avesta,  The,  145. 
Zola,  172,  173,  177  ;  "  L'Assommoir,'' 
173. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

- 

:i3Fdb',&>ft      ^ 

.-,-5 

< 

FEj  i3 

i 

yOrt'finFM 

1 

^ 

RgC'D  »-0 

SEP  26  t9G0 

f '  r- '  , 

Kuv     ,!        ]975  (. 

rro  i  ^   1070 

1 

rtD  11  ly/o 

MAYI  31983 

tl 

V   ■         ■■■  .    '^.     ■    __        .,-iH* 

'.■>v- 

\s.\\i\roH'i:^'           uni?e?|;y;&u  1 

•V.   ULi\i\LLLI    LiDf\Mr\ILO 


CD3S300bt3fl 


